What does that mean? Noemi isn’t sure, but Abel doesn’t dwell on it. Already he’s flexing his hands again, affirming his restored agility. It must not be anything worth worrying about.
When he’s ready, she slings one of his arms around her shoulder and walks him back through the ship to his quarters—really, Mansfield’s quarters, now home to the man’s greatest creation. This is the first time Noemi’s taken a good look at this room, and she doesn’t know whether to admire its beauty or be appalled at the extravagance. A four-poster bed carved of burnished wood stands in the center of the room, covered with a silk coverlet that shimmers emerald. A painting of water lilies, soft and blurry in shades of blue, hangs in an ornate golden frame. A wardrobe, like something out of Victorian times, sits in one corner, and when Noemi looks around inside, she finds a thick, wine-red velvet robe.
She slides this on over Abel’s clothes before tucking him in bed. “The more layers, the better,” she says.
“Don’t worry.” Abel’s smile is lopsided; he’s still thawing. “I’m improving rapidly. I’ll still be able to do it.”
“To do what?”
He gives her an odd look. “To take the thermomagnetic device into the Gate and destroy it.”
Noemi feels as though the floor dropped out from under her, horrified and a little sick. “Wait. You think that’s why I saved you?”
“Rationally, it would be a strong motivator.”
“Abel, no. You don’t get it.” Struggling for words, she sits on the edge of the bed. “Don’t you remember what I said to you before?”
“That I am responsible for my own actions, and therefore for my own mistakes.”
“Not that. Not only that, anyway.” Noemi takes a deep breath as she squeezes his cool hands. “If you’re responsible for attacking me when I boarded the ship, you’re also responsible for protecting me on Wayland Station, and for saving me in the underground river on Cray. For trying to save Esther. For understanding where to bury her. You did all those things for me.”
“That is a matter of my programming.”
“And you can disregard that programming if you want to badly enough.”
“So it seems.” He looks lost as he says it. Maybe Abel only just discovered this himself. It doesn’t matter when he figured it out, only that it’s true. “I have realized that I no longer follow your orders because I have to. I… I do it because I want to.”
How can he want that? How can he want to follow her even to oblivion? Noemi’s voice shakes as she continues, “Abel—you have a soul. Or something so close to a soul that I can’t tell the difference, and I shouldn’t even try. And if you have a soul, I can’t order you to destroy yourself in the Gate. I can’t hurt you, and I won’t. No matter what.”
Abel’s astonishment would make her laugh under any other circumstances. As it is, it’s almost painful to see how surprised he is to realize that someone believes his life has value. To realize she believes it. “But I attempted to kill you.”
“You attacked an enemy soldier who boarded your ship,” Noemi admits. “Pretty much anyone would’ve reacted the way you did. Human or mech. For that, and for Esther, I think… I think mostly I blamed you because you’re here to be blamed. I don’t blame you at all anymore.”
As stiff as he is, he manages to roll onto his side, the better to look her directly in the face. “Whether I have a soul or not can only be a matter of opinion.”
She shakes her head. “Nope. It’s a matter of faith.”
“You must still have doubts.”
“The opposite of faith isn’t doubt. The opposite of faith is certainty.” So the Elder Council always says, reminding people to avoid the cheap platitudes of dogma, to rely only on deep insight. She may be a terrible believer in so many ways—but this lesson, at least, she’s finally mastered.
“But Genesis—the Gate, the Masada Run—can you give up so easily?”
“Who said anything about giving up?” She’d begun formulating a new plan within half an hour after her argument with Abel. “You said only an advanced mech could pilot a ship carrying that kind of device through a Gate. A human would die from the heat, and a lower-level mech would shut down. Right?”
“Correct.”
Noemi begins ticking her points off on her fingers. “We need an advanced mech. You’re an advanced mech, but you’re not the only one advanced enough to do this. Some other models could handle it, too, couldn’t they? Which ones?”
Abel nods, though he answers her as if in a daze. “Either of the medical models, Tare or Mike. Any Charlie or Queen. Maybe even the caretaker models, Nan and Uncle—”
“See? Lots of possibilities.” Her voice sounds too chipper even to her own ears. Noemi’s been going over this in her own head, trying to calm herself down, but every second, she expects Abel to point out a new complication or flaw, something that will crush all her hopes. “Like I said, I don’t need you to fly the device into the Gate any longer. But I do need you to help me capture a mech that can. One of the ones that’s really just a machine. Not like you. You’re—more.”
Abel seems younger to her somehow, almost childlike in his wonder. “Do you really believe that?”
“Yeah. I do.”
He doesn’t answer, only pulls the coverlet more tightly around him. He’s so cold every scrap of heat must be welcome, so weary he can barely move; Noemi knows how he feels. Ever since Kismet, she’s been tired. It seems like sleeping only makes it worse, not better. But there will be time to rest when this is all over. Oceans of time to spend on a free, safe Genesis.
“You realize that capturing a mech isn’t easy.” Abel can’t quit arguing for his own demise. “Even a lower-level one has the strength and will to resist. The smarter ones will prove even more difficult.”
“That’s where you come in.”
“Be serious,” he says. “The fate of your world is in your hands.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that I have your fate in my hands, too. I’m going to take care of Genesis, and I’m going to take care of you. I don’t care how hard it is. We’re going to make this happen.”
“And then—” Abel’s voice trails off. “Then what? After it’s all over, then what happens?”
Noemi hasn’t though this part through in detail, because it’s not hers to decide. “After that, you take me home to Genesis, and then you go wherever you want.”
“I would decide?”
“Yeah. Take the Daedalus and go.” She zooms her hand up in the air, as if it were the ship, then feels silly for doing so.
But Abel hardly seems to notice. He’s still rocked by her suggestion. “You would leave the decision entirely up to me?”
“Yes, exactly.” Noemi’s heart sinks as she takes in Abel’s confusion. It’s like he can’t wrap his super-genius mind around something as simple as making his own choices. “I guess that’s one gift Mansfield never wanted to give you—the chance to determine your own fate.”
“You’re too quick to blame him.” Abel’s response comes so readily that she thinks it must be his programming reasserting itself. But the doubt in his eyes tells her he wonders about his own answer. “You were taught that he was wicked, evil, merely for inventing mechs—”
“Don’t you understand, Abel? Do you still not get it?” Noemi hopes he’ll hear this one basic truth, the one that has changed her plans and her heart. “We were taught that Mansfield was evil because he made soulless machines in the shape of men. But he did something worse than that to you, so much worse.” Her voice catches in her throat. “Burton Mansfield’s greatest sin was creating a soul and imprisoning it in a machine.”
Abel says nothing. No doubt he disagrees. But he seems to understand her at last.
After a long moment, he looks away. Noemi can’t meet his eyes again either. Together they’ve crossed a threshold, and neither of them knows what may lie beyond it.
“Sleep,” she says gently. “You have to be exhausted.”
; “As do you. You must prioritize your own health and well-being.”
It’s a plea, not an invitation, but Noemi doesn’t care. She lies down on the other half of the bed, atop the silk coverlet. Abel hesitates, obviously wondering what else she might do; when she simply lies there, he closes his eyes, passing instantly into sleep.
Noemi shifts herself closer, so her head rests on his shoulder. She still needs to keep him warm.
And for the first time since Esther’s death—or maybe in far longer—Noemi no longer feels alone.
26
WITHIN ANOTHER EIGHT HOURS, ABEL HAS RESTORED all primary functions. Some of his organic structures will continue to heal further, but he has full mobility and no pain.
He should be happy, an emotion he has discovered lies well within his parameters of feeling. Noemi saved him from death by freezing and has decided to spare him. She acknowledged him as an equal. And she did something no human ever does for a mech: She set him free.
But Abel was never designed for freedom.
He has never dreamed about it. Never even wanted it. Mechs are made for something or someone. Not simply… to be. Even Abel, created from Mansfield’s curiosity and hope, was surely meant to stay by his side always.
But when he says as much to Noemi, she disagrees.
“Wait a minute,” she says the next afternoon, as they walk together down to the crew mess to grab a pouch of emergency rations before getting back to work. “After this you can go anywhere in the galaxy—do absolutely anything—and you’re just returning to Burton Mansfield? I don’t understand why you think Mansfield’s so great after what he did to you.”
“Did to me? Mansfield did everything for me.”
“He put your soul inside a machine—”
“No. He created my soul. He made it possible. He gave that to me.” Abel finds himself smiling. “He couldn’t have known I’d reach this point, but he must have at least hoped for that. Otherwise he wouldn’t have created the capacity.”
After a long moment, Noemi folds her arms in grudging agreement. “I guess.”
“Which makes him less like my creator and more like a parent.” Father, he thinks. Mansfield must’ve known what he was doing when he urged Abel to call him by that name. “Children don’t abandon their parents, do they?”
“Not usually. But they don’t stay with their parents their whole lives either. In the end, you’re supposed to choose a life of your own.”
“In the end,” Abel says. “I’m not there yet.” After thirty years stranded in space, plus several days believing his destruction was imminent, it feels incredible to be able to say such a thing and know it to be true.
However, talking about “the end” has reminded Abel that Burton Mansfield is an elderly man.
After Mansfield dies, then what?
Mechs don’t age much in the visible sense. But even mechs die. Both organic and mechanical systems break down, given enough time. Absent damage, a mech can expect to live about two hundred years before grinding to a halt.
If Abel lives another one hundred and fifty years, he will live the vast majority of those without Burton Mansfield. All the programming within him—what use will it serve then? Only one: It will ensure that Abel remains every bit as lonely as he did in that pod bay.
Abel dislikes this conclusion not only because it predicts his future unhappiness, but also because, if he’s been designed to suffer so much for so long, Noemi is right. Mansfield has made a terrible mistake.
He won’t blame Mansfield. Not yet. But he sees the very real possibility of Mansfield’s error.
I have changed, he thinks. I am changing.
“Are you okay?” Her smile wavers. “You looked so strange for a second.”
“I’m much better,” Abel says. In truth he still feels odd—as if he is having trouble concentrating—but no doubt that’s a sign of the damage still repairing within. “We should get to work.”
“I know. We only have—how many days is it now?”
Until the Masada Run, she means. “Nine days.”
Noemi blanches. “I thought we had a couple more days—”
“We’re much farther from Kismet here, beyond the Blind Gate. More time will have elapsed on your homeworld. The Einsteinian calculations are complex.” Once Abel would’ve added that no human brain could expect to handle such complicated work, but he’s learned better. “We still have time.”
She shakes her head as she drops to her knees to reopen one of the lower panels. “Not enough.”
Abel feels the urgency driving her on as fiercely as if it were his world he needed to save and not hers. Assuming there’s a world he could truly call his own.
They get back to work in the small, shining, cube-shaped engine room of the Daedalus. Throughout the rest of the ship, curved lines dominate. Beauty and symmetry guide the placement of every panel, every chair. The engine room, however, is as gray, basic, and joyless as it is possible for a room to be, outside of prison facilities. It is a place for installation and repair, nothing more. Yet Abel finds himself liking the room, because here he and Noemi work together as partners. They are no longer adversaries, or human and mech; they are equals. Nobody has ever accepted him that way before, and Abel finds the experience… almost intoxicating.
They work together almost in silence, speaking only about the mechanical elements they’re repairing. Noemi’s desperation seems to fill the room as surely as heat or perfume. Abel works as fast as he can without completely leaving her behind; their margin of time, while tighter than before, is still adequate—and he knows she needs to be a part of the solution.
But not everything can be rushed. After several hours of effort, they reach a point where the shields have to go through a long round of self-diagnostics. This leaves them with nothing to do for some time to come.
“You will have enough time to sleep a full eight hours,” he tells her as they pack up their tools. “Plus exercise, if you desire it.”
“I need it, but I can’t.” Noemi winces as she rubs her temples. “I can’t even think right now. I’m so wiped out, but there’s no way I could sleep. Every time my mind wanders, I think about the Masada Run, and then—”
“Dwelling on events you cannot yet influence will only discourage you.” He considers the possibilities. “Recreation might provide a welcome distraction.”
“Recreation?” She leans one shoulder against the wall. “Like what?”
Abel had been speaking in general terms, but now he knows the perfect suggestion. “Would you like to see a movie?”
“If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”
As thrilled as Abel is to finally be watching Casablanca again in real life, he keeps glancing over at Noemi to gauge her reaction. It’s nearly as good as the film itself. She’s been rapt since the first few minutes, laughing at all the jokes once he explained the antique references. Now she’s completely caught up in the bittersweet ending. All her troubles have slipped into the background for a time; for the moment, at least, he can simply make her happy.
They’ve turned the junior crew’s bunk room into their makeshift theater, each of them curled on parallel beds, the story playing out on the room’s one large screen. These movies were known as “black-and-white,” but really the images shimmer in a thousand shades of silver.
Rick touches Ilsa’s chin, tilting her face gently upward. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Abel’s always liked that part. He wonders what it would feel like, touching someone’s face that way.
“That can’t be the end,” Noemi says, as Ilsa and Victor Laszlo walk toward the plane, leaving Rick behind forever. “That’s why she leaves?”
“You don’t think she should stay with Laszlo?”
“Of course she has to go fight the Nazis. But… when does she decide that for herself? Rick’s the one who made the decision.”
Abe
l’s never considered this before. “It seems she decided while Rick was speaking to her.”
With a frown, Noemi scrunches down farther in her bunk. “I wish she’d made the choice on her own.”
“You wish she showed greater autonomy. But if she did so, the movie would perhaps suggest that she really hadn’t loved Rick at all. That she was only pretending for Laszlo’s benefit.”
“Good point,” Noemi says absently. She’s already caught up in seeing which way Captain Renault will turn.
At the end, she applauds, which catches Abel off guard. “You enjoyed it?”
“What? Of course I did. That was amazing.” Noemi’s smile is warmer than he’d known it could be. “There really is something about 2-D films. You only get the images and sound, but it makes your imagination work harder, doesn’t it? So you wind up wrapping the story around you. And the whole idea of her being in love with Rick but not wanting to hurt Victor because he’s so heroic and important… it’s pretty romantic.”
This topic strikes Abel as particularly fascinating. “Have you ever been in love?”
Noemi stares at him, snapped out of her dreamy mood. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m curious about human emotional development and response.” For some reason, that makes her laugh. “Did I say something wrong? Is the question too personal?”
“Kinda. But—” She sinks back onto her bunk. “No, I haven’t been in love. I thought I was once, but I was wrong.”
“How can you be wrong about your own emotions?” Abel finds his feelings confusing, but he’s always assumed that was due to their relative newness.
“It felt like love, sometimes. I was crazy about him, wanted to be with him, hoped he’d love me back—all of that. But really I was only in love with my idea of Jemuel. My daydreams of all the romantic times we could spend together, in theory. Not in reality.”
“Did he not love you back?” That strikes Abel as unlikely. Noemi is courageous, forthright, intelligent, and kind. These must be desirable qualities in a mate.