Main docking bay: Level One. Two levels below my equipment pod bay. After three decades, Abel thinks of the room as his. When the Genesis fighters enter the main docking bay, the unharmed pilot will no doubt attempt to reach sick bay in order to assist the injured comrade, he calculates. If the pilot’s main goal were safety, rather than rescue, then that fighter would be speeding back toward the distant Genesis fleet. Although a first-aid kit had been stored in the main docking bay, Abel doesn’t know whether it’s still there; even if it is, its contents would be unlikely to help anyone gravely hurt.
In order to leave the docking bay, the Genesis pilot will have to restore backup power. Assuming any damage to the Daedalus is not too severe, it is possible to do this from that location. Any trained pilot should be able to do so within minutes if not seconds.
Abel’s mind clicks through the possibilities, faster and faster. This is the first new situation he’s faced in thirty years. His mental capabilities have not been blunted by this long time in storage. If anything, he feels sharper than before.
But there’s an emotional component now. Hope has kindled into something far more exhilarating: excitement. Merely seeing anything outside this pod bay will be a thrill…
… but nothing can possibly match the knowledge that he will finally be able to search for Burton Mansfield. To find him. Maybe even to save him.
“Excellent,” Mansfield said as he examined the puzzles Abel had just solved. “Your pattern-recognition ability is top-notch. You finished that in very nearly record time, Abel.”
Although Abel was programmed to enjoy praise, particularly from Mansfield, he could still experience doubt. “Was my performance adequate, sir?”
Mansfield settled into his high-backed leather chair, a slight frown on his face. “You do understand that excellence would, by definition, include adequacy?”
“Yes, sir! Of course, sir.” Abel didn’t want Mansfield to think his language databases hadn’t loaded properly. “I only meant—many of my test performances have beaten all existing records. These results did not.”
After a moment, Mansfield chuckled. “Would you look at that? It looks like your personality has already developed enough to make you a perfectionist.”
“… Is that good, sir?”
“Better than you realize.” Mansfield rose from his chair. “Walk with me, Abel.”
Burton Mansfield’s office was located in his house in London. Although the home had been recently constructed and on the outside looked like any other mirrored polygon in this gated, privileged community on the hill—on the inside, it might have been 1895 instead of 2295. Handwoven silk rugs covered the wooden floors. A grandfather clock ticked loudly in the corner, its brass pendulum swinging back and forth despite countless atomic clocks nested in the higher-tech machines concealed all around it. Paintings by various Old Masters hung on the wall: a saint by Raphael, a soup can by Warhol. And even though the fire and fireplace were holographic, the house’s internal climate controls made it feel as though the flames glowed with heat.
Mansfield was a human male of average height, with dark-gold hair and blue eyes. His features were regular, even handsome, if Abel understood the aesthetic principles involved. (He hoped that he did, because Mansfield’s younger face had been the model for Abel’s own.) Even the eccentricities of Mansfield’s appearance were striking and aristocratic—the widow’s peak at his forehead, a slightly hawkish nose, and unusually full lips. He dressed in the simple, Japanese-inspired style of the day, in a flowing open jacket and wide-legged trousers.
Abel, meanwhile, wore the same boxy gray coverall common to most mechs. The garment fit and was practical for all purposes. Why then did it sometimes feel… not right?
Before he could consider this question in depth, Abel was brought back to the moment by Mansfield, who was pointing at the window—actually at the courtyard outside. “What do you see out there, Abel? No. Who do you see?”
Mansfield usually used who, not what, to refer to mechs. Abel appreciated the courtesy. “I see two Dog models and one Yoke model, all of which are engaged in garden work. One of the Dogs is tending your hydroponic vegetable plot, while the other Dog and Yoke are trimming the topiary hedges.”
“We need to work on your overenthusiasm for detail.” Mansfield sighed. “That’s my fault, of course. Never mind. My point is—if I sent you into that garden, you could take care of the hydroponics, couldn’t you? And trim the hedge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just as well as any Dog or Yoke?”
“Of course, sir.”
“What if I fell and broke my arm? Could you set it as well as a Tare model?”
The medical mechs were among the smartest and swiftest, but Abel could still answer, “Yes, sir.”
Mansfield’s blue eyes twinkled. “What if a Queen model broke in with orders to kill me? A Queen or a Charlie? What then?”
“Sir, you’re Earth’s most respected roboticist—no one would—”
“The question is theoretical,” Mansfield said gently.
“Oh. In theory, were a fighter-model mech to attempt to kill you, I believe I could defeat it in combat. At the very least, I’d be able to distract or damage it enough for you to escape or summon help.”
“Exactly. All the programming for the other twenty-five models—all their talents—every bit of that is inside you. You may only equal your simpler counterparts in certain talents, but you’ll excel in most of them. And not one mech ever built has the breadth of skills and intelligence that you have.” The ghost of a smile played upon Mansfield’s face as he studied Abel. “You, my son, are one of a kind.”
Son. Abel knew this was not true in any literal sense; although he contained organic DNA patterned on Mansfield’s own, he was primarily a mechanical construct, not a biological organism. Burton Mansfield had a true child of his own, a daughter who obviously took precedence in every way. And yet—
“You liked that, didn’t you?” Mansfield asked. “When I called you ‘son.’”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you’re gaining some emotional capacity. Good.” His hand patted Abel once on the back. “Let’s hurry that along, shall we? From now on, call me ‘Father.’” With a sigh, Mansfield looked out at the hoverships darting through the London sky. “Getting late. Tell the Dogs and Yoke to finish up, would you?”
Abel nodded.
“And when you’re done, join me in the library. I want to get you started on some books and movies and holovids. We’ll see whether fictional narratives can affect you.”
“I’ll be there soon,” Abel said, before daring to add, “Father.”
He was rewarded with Mansfield’s smile.
A distant clang sounds through the ship. The framework shudders slightly—stubborn metal resisting motion after so long at rest. The main docking bay door is opening at last.
Abel realizes he’s smiling.
I’ll be there soon, Father.
Once again he reviews the ship’s schematics, imagining a three-dimensional model of the Daedalus floating in front of him. Abel mentally enlarges the area around the pod bay and searches for “defensive resources.” Various possibilities come up, most of them emergency storage lockers, some nearer and more practical than others—
The auxiliary lights come on. For the first time in thirty years, Abel is no longer surrounded by darkness.
A human might hesitate, overwhelmed with shock, delight, or gratitude. Abel instantly angles himself, prepared for the moment a split second later when gravity comes back on. He drops two meters and lands on his feet and hands as silently as a cat. From there it’s only one step to the door; his fingers fly over the keyboard with inhuman speed to input the unlock code, and—at last, at long last—the pod-bay door slides open.
Abel is free.
He doesn’t celebrate. He doesn’t laugh. He simply runs to the nearest “defensive resource” listed in the ship schematics. The locker remains undamaged, still seale
d. Whatever happened to Mansfield and the others, they never used these. Is that good news—or proof they died instantly?
Abel punches in the ten-digit code. The door opens, revealing the locker’s contents, and Abel’s hand closes around a blaster. Now armed, he runs toward sick bay. If Burton Mansfield is in cryosleep there, his life may be imminently at risk. Therefore, the Genesis pilot remains an enemy intruder whose presence cannot be allowed. The pilot’s swiftness in restoring full power suggests an intelligent opponent. In other words, a dangerous one.
Abel will allow himself to be found by his liberator—the person who set him free after all this time—and then he’ll shoot to kill.
5
NOEMI SLAMS DOWN ONTO THE DECK OF THE ABAN-doned ship, instinctively covering her head as pieces of debris fall on and around her—emergency ration packs, tools, all the other stuff these careless people left behind. Worse than the impacts on her back and arms are the heavy thuds of metal from behind: her fighter and Esther’s recon ship, falling onto the docking-bay floor.
The ships can take that. But Esther…
Lights are on. Gravity’s stabilized. Atmosphere pressurized—go.
Noemi dashes from the control panel to Esther’s ship and hits the switch to open the cockpit from the outside, but the damage is too great—it’s lost all power. Esther stirs, rolling onto one side until she stiffens, in obvious pain. With a shaky hand, Esther reaches for the manual control. The cockpit’s transparent shell scrapes back too slowly.
“Esther!” Noemi tugs off her helmet, then reaches inside the cockpit even as the shell struggles to open fully. Carefully she lifts off Esther’s helmet, too. “Where are you hurt?”
“Left—” Esther has to swallow hard before she can keep talking. “Left side… Where are we?”
“Looks like an abandoned Earth ship in the debris field.” And the ship’s in even better condition than Noemi had hoped. The backup power is at nearly 100 percent despite what must have been many years dormant. There’s a small plaque above the doors leading into the rest of the ship, one word etched in larger letters than all the rest. “The Daedalus. Somebody from Earth must’ve been forced to dump it decades ago. So, see, we’ve got gravity, communications systems, medical supplies, everything we need. You’re going to be okay.”
Esther’s head lolls back, her green eyes glinting with gallows humor. “Liar.”
“You will. Can you get out of your ship?”
After a moment, Esther slowly shakes her head. “I can’t stand up. The mech—my hip—”
Noemi’s stomach turns over as she realizes the mech not only tore through the hull of the ship but crushed Esther’s hip joint, too. The flight suit isn’t ripped, but that doesn’t mean Esther isn’t shredded and bleeding inside it.
The femoral artery hasn’t been severed, Noemi tells herself. If it had been, she’d be dead already. So it’s intact. She has a chance.
“Okay, Esther. Hang on.” Try to carry her to sick bay, or bring supplies back here? If they’re going to make it back to the troop ship and real medical help, Esther’s going to need sealant for her wounds and maybe a transfusion if she’s bleeding inside—one that Noemi, with AB negative blood type, probably can’t supply. But a ship like this might have stocked synthetic blood, and the stuff’s good forever. Noemi can carry some synthetic blood and tubes, and probably Esther shouldn’t be moved until she’s been stabilized and they have a better idea of just how badly she’s been injured. “I’m going to find sick bay, all right? I’ll be right back with supplies.”
Esther’s face goes even paler. She doesn’t want to be left alone, and Noemi’s heart wrenches thinking of how scared Esther must feel. But her friend only nods, and tries to joke. “I’m not… going anywhere.”
Noemi squeezes Esther’s gloved hand, then runs for the door, which slides open smoothly. She dashes into the interior of the deserted ship and pauses, trying to get her bearings. The corridor curves in what looks like a long oval, and the emergency lighting tints everything dull orange. Noemi looks around wildly. This ship isn’t that enormous—perhaps the size of a couple of three-story houses put together—but even the few minutes it would take to explore it fully are minutes Esther can’t spare. I need a screen, schematics, something to tell me where everything is!
She runs along the main corridor, a long spiral that goes from the bottom of the ship to the top, with a few short side corridors jutting off the sides. Like a vine with thorns, Noemi thinks. And the corridors are vaulted, broken up every few meters by curved metal struts on the side. It reminds her of the halls of Gothic cathedrals built on Earth long ago.
Then she sees a screen. Heart pounding, she presses her hand against it. Most info screens respond to human touch, but this one remains black. “Computer?” Noemi tries. Nothing. Does it not hear her? “Information. Power on.”
Still nothing. But at the very bottom of the screen, she sees a faint light racing back and forth, indicating that the computers are at least partially active. It must be malfunctioning. Although the Daedalus looks almost completely undamaged, it has to have been here a long time, at least since the first Liberty War thirty years prior. Maybe it’s falling apart due to neglect.…
No, Noemi realizes. That’s not it. Someone must have locked down primary systems.
Chills sweep through her, stiffening her backbone and making her hair stand on end. Is someone else aboard the Daedalus?—but no. That’s impossible. No human being could or would have lived in isolation for thirty years. Probably the former crew locked systems down before abandoning ship, to ensure nobody from Genesis could capture it.
If these systems are locked down, communication will be, too. How can she contact the troop ship and Captain Baz?
Deal with that later, she tells herself. Just find sick bay and take care of Esther.
The landing bay is on the lowest level of the Daedalus, so Noemi runs upward, checking each door as she goes. Engine room—no. Kitchen mess—no. Auxiliary pod bay for equipment—no. Crew quarters—the bridge with its vast viewscreen—no. Her breathing quickens as she pushes herself onward. Panic is closing in, and piloting a fighter in battle is more exhausting than it seems. But the danger to Esther keeps Noemi moving.
I must be near the top, she thinks as she rounds the next curve, footsteps thudding against the metal plates of the floor. Sick bay has to be one of the next few rooms—
Two years of military training have honed Noemi’s reflexes. So a barely conscious alarm goes off when one of the metal plates doesn’t thump the same way as the others. Maybe it’s that flush of extra adrenaline that sharpens her vision and lets her detect one swift flash of movement around the next curve—pale gray against the coal black of the corridors. Noemi reacts without thinking, instantly flinging herself sideways to take cover behind one of the wall struts in the split second before a blaster bolt scorches the floor.
One blink and her own blaster’s in her hand. Noemi leans around to shoot at her unknown attacker, whips back before whoever it is can target her again. The smell of ozone sears her nose, and now she’s on the verge of panic.
How can anyone be in here? Did a human being somehow live in this ship for thirty years?
What frightens Noemi the most is that her attacker stands between her and sick bay. This intruder, or castaway, whoever it might be, is keeping Noemi from getting Esther the help she needs. Esther could be bleeding to death internally right now.
Fear turns to fury. Noemi shoots blindly around the rounded corner of the corridor. Immediately her assailant fires back, missing her only by millimeters; the heat of the blast stings her bare fingers.
That was so close. So accurate. With a mere fraction of a second to aim…
Noemi’s gut clenches. A mech. That’s what it has to be, another damned mech. At first she’s confused—I know no other mechs flew out this way with us, only the one I destroyed—but then she realizes it must have been aboard ever since this ship was abandoned. The human bei
ngs saved themselves and fled back to Earth, leaving this soulless hunk of metal behind to defend the wreckage forever.
Emergency systems aboard the Daedalus belatedly recognize internal weapons fire. The lights shift from orange to red; they begin to pulse rapidly, the strobe effect turning the entire world strange and disjointed. Noemi’s heartbeat speeds up to match it.
She is a warrior of Genesis. She flew into battle today prepared to be killed by a mech. But she’ll be damned if she’ll let one kill Esther, too.
Noemi has to destroy this mech and get to sick bay now—or die trying.
6
THIRTY YEARS OF SOLITUDE, ENDED IN A FLASH. WITH his first glimpse of the intruder, Abel is—at last—no longer alone.
Every command in his programming says he must kill the new human on board. He fully intends to do so. But for one overpowering, rapturous moment, Abel wants nothing more than to hear her voice, to see her, to revel in the presence of another.
Replaying the .412 seconds of visual data he has indicates that this is most likely a her—an adolescent, female-presenting human approximately 168 centimeters or five feet six inches in height, of primarily Latin American and Polynesian ancestry, with chin-length black hair, brown eyes, the dark-green exosuit of a Genesis soldier, and a Mark Eight blaster that is—to judge by the wavelength of the beams that just sliced through the air—at approximately 45 percent charge.
Given that he must kill the intruder shortly, the data about the blaster is the most relevant. Abel saw two fighters entering the landing bay, but only one soldier has infiltrated the ship. Therefore, his earlier analysis of the situation was correct: One pilot is severely injured, and the other wants to reach sick bay in order to provide assistance.
But she cannot be allowed to do so, because Burton Mansfield may be in cryosleep inside. Immediately after arming himself, Abel shut off all communications systems, both internal and external, to isolate the Genesis pilots. Therefore, no reinforcements will arrive. His opponent is alone and desperate. In such conditions, humans become reckless. If he keeps her from her goal, she will go to extreme lengths to reach sick bay—and in so doing, weaken her position.