What else can he call what’s about to happen, if not his death? Abel’s body will go on, but his body was never what made him special. It was his soul, the soul only Noemi could truly see. That will be destroyed.
The tanks bubble and hiss as Abel walks between them. Now that the sun is setting, the stained glass windows no longer show to good advantage. They’re only dark. Two chairs are settled near a bright corner that could easily be mistaken for a reading nook—but the equipment stored behind them tells a different story. This is where Abel will be invited to take a seat and give up his soul for Burton Mansfield.
I must protect Burton Mansfield. I must obey Burton Mansfield.
What will slip away from him first? His memories of the thirty years in the pod bay? That might not be so bad. The languages he’s learned? Or will it be a feeling?
It hits Abel then—his love for Noemi will be pulled out of him. Destroyed. The love itself will no longer exist.
Protect Burton Mansfield. Obey Burton Mansfield.
Abel turns to look at the opposite wall of the workshop. There’s the back door that leads to the garden, the one he and Mansfield walked through only a brief time ago. Nobody activated the security lock.
Obey Burton Mansfield.
But Mansfield didn’t order Abel to submit to the procedure. He expects it, wishes it, but he hasn’t commanded it—and that loophole in Abel’s programming makes all the difference.
Slowly he walks toward the doorway, expecting to be stopped at any moment. Not by the Tare, not even by Mansfield, but by something deep inside himself, some other fail-safe that will keep him from abandoning his “ultimate purpose.” Instead he keeps going, slowly closes his hand around the knob, and opens the door.
Outside, not so far away, London’s crowds bustle along. They’re just down the hill, not far past the iron gate. Abel can hurdle that in a moment, if he can only begin.
One step.
Then another.
He looks back at the house, at the workshop where he was born, and remembers rising from the tank to look into Mansfield’s delighted face.
Abel turns around and begins to walk, then to walk faster, and finally to run as hard and fast as he can.
35
GENESIS HAS FEW PRISONS. ONLY INDIVIDUALS GENU-inely dangerous to those around them are denied freedom. Other wrongdoers are expected to work for their atonement—sometimes hard and thankless labor—and their movements are controlled via sensor, kept close to work and house. But for the most part, they stay at home. The Elder Council says people are more likely to amend their behavior when they have some chance of retaining their place in their community.
Privately, Noemi’s always had doubts about their system of justice. Maybe she’s bloody-minded, but it seems unfair to her. Some criminals get off too easily, in her opinion.
But now—staring up at London’s Marshalsea Prison—Noemi thinks she could never sentence someone to live in anything as gray and forbidding as this.
An enormous polygon of lasers surrounds a series of metal cells, stacked beside and atop one another like so many storage crates. The gaps between the lasers measure no more than a couple of centimeters. It stands on this lonely street, looking like a dungeon ringed with fire out of a fairy tale, one of the old, scary ones. Few vehicles go by, and those that do travel at top speed. Nobody wants to look at this thing for long.
“So get this,” Virginia says. She’s reading up on the Marshalsea, staring down at the dataread while Noemi and Ephraim gape at the prison itself. “Turns out this was a prison, like, five or six hundred years ago. Then they got rid of it, and for a long time this was a pretty fashionable neighborhood, but it started getting run-down about two hundred years back. So about a century ago, they wound up building a new prison on the exact same spot. But the old one was just, like, for debtors or something. They used to put you in jail for owing money—crazy, right? But this one is maximum security.”
“No kidding,” Noemi says, staring at the lasers.
“I know this won’t be easy.” Ephraim speaks slowly, with gravity. He turns and stares at Noemi as if he can will her to stay just by looking hard enough. “But remember what I said about debts of honor. You can’t pay them off easily. It has to cost you something.”
“I owe you that debt,” Noemi agrees. “I’m ready to pay it.”
Virginia holds up one hand. “I’d like to point out that I owe a debt of honor to exactly no one.”
Although Ephraim winces as though she’s given him a headache, he says, “Virginia, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to do this.”
“Actually, yeah, she does. Otherwise we don’t have a chance.” Noemi turns to Virginia, hands clasped together in front of her. “You can get us in there, right? Turn off some of the security?”
“Of course I can. I’m a Razer, aren’t I? No code out there I can’t raze.”
Temporarily distracted, Noemi smiles. “That’s where the name comes from?”
Virginia smacks her forehead. “I didn’t tell you? They’ll throw me out for this—”
“If we could concentrate,” Ephraim says quietly.
A vehicle speeds by and they all fall silent, as if the passengers would otherwise hear them. Noemi shrinks down, afraid of being observed—but what’s the point? Neither human nor mech guards surround the perimeter of the Marshalsea; the tech provides all the security Earth needs.
Or it did, until Virginia Redbird came along.
As the vehicle disappears around the curve, both Noemi and Ephraim turn back to Virginia, who sighs. “I’m mostly doing this because it’s going to be flash as hell, but for what it’s worth? You both owe me ‘debts of honor’ after this. Got it?”
“Got it,” Noemi promises. Ephraim nods, so solemnly that she’s reminded of the elders back home.
Although Noemi doesn’t feel good about breaking a terrorist out of prison, she’s not doing it for Riko herself. She’s doing it for Ephraim and the other members of Remedy who wouldn’t stoop to Riko’s tactics—the ones who might yet prove to be worthy allies to Genesis.
The sound of grinding metal makes them all jump. Noemi wheels around to see that the individual cells in the prison—the connected pods—are moving. It shifts configuration, shuffling the cells into an entirely new array. Of course, she thinks. That makes escape attempts harder.
“Is that going to keep happening?” Virginia ventures.
“My guess is yeah.” Ephraim runs his hands over his close-shorn hair, clearly torn between fear and exasperation. “That makes this harder, I guess.”
“No, it doesn’t.” A smile begins to spread across Noemi’s face. “Because there’s a pattern to how they move.”
Virginia’s stare would be funny under any other circumstances. “And you know this how?”
“Because this is just like the pods on Wayland Station.” She nearly memorized the pattern that long first night, when Noemi lay awake for hours, unable to relax with a mech by her side—
—her heart aches for a moment, remembering Abel. How useless all her fear and suspicion was. If she could go back to that night, she’d stay up until dawn, talking to him until she ran out of things to say, though she can’t imagine running out of things she’d want to talk about with Abel—
Her thoughts are derailed by Ephraim. “So we figure out the pattern. But that only does us so much good if we don’t know which cell our target’s in.”
Virginia holds up her hands, wiggling her fingers like a magician proving there’s nothing up his sleeve. “Leave that to me.”
The process turns out to have nothing in common with a magic show. From the bench where she’s slumped on one corner, Virginia spends at least an hour making contact with the prison’s security system, another hour muttering random things at the dataread she’s working with. “If it’s not that pathway, and not that one, then I have to knock over here—”
During those hours, Noemi and Ephraim do the long, tedious, and necessary wor
k of remaining in the shadows. Half the time, they’re keeping an eye out for the human guards that do exist, but they’re lazy, complacent, expecting no trouble, and thinking nothing of the young people idling around on the sidewalk. It’s hard for Noemi to imagine anyone on Genesis being so careless; after decades of war, her people know to remain cautious at every moment. Earth’s wealth and peace have made it go slack.
Not that her thoughts don’t wander once or twice. She’s standing on planet Earth, and even the dull, joyless neighborhood around the Marshalsea contains oddities that fascinate her: architecture in different styles, from different centuries, all in the same jumble of buildings mashed together wall to wall. The various styles of clothing worn by the people who stroll by, so varied it’s hard to believe they’re all from the same planet, much less the same city. Artificial lights gleaming brilliantly in the dark, all along every street, because Earth residents seem to consider day and night mere states of mind.
The other half of the time, she and Ephraim watch the cell pods move. For a long time she thinks there’s no pattern at all; maybe there wouldn’t be, in a prison, where pure randomization might work best. But after a while, they see it: concentric rings, turning clockwise or counterclockwise in turn, with cells slowly being pushed to the outer rim and drawn back in again.
“We’re not going to have more than one or two chances to catch Riko’s cell near the ground,” Noemi says to Virginia. “Not tonight, anyway.”
Ephraim never turns away from the Marshalsea. “Doesn’t matter. We can come back here every night, for as long as it takes.”
Five days. The deadline could be a noose tightening around Noemi’s throat. That’s how long she has to stop the Masada Run. If it comes down to her debt to Ephraim versus her duty to protect Genesis, she has to choose her home. But how could she abandon Ephraim as a fugitive, on a world he doesn’t even know, without so much as a ship to call home?
But Virginia brightens. “We’re in luck, guys. I think I see our way in. She’s in cell number 122372, which is headed toward the perimeter in about three minutes.”
Instantly Ephraim’s at Virginia’s side. “And you can get us through the grid in that time?”
“Or die trying,” Virginia replies. “Quick, laugh like that’s a joke and not our actual literal deaths on the line.”
Nobody laughs.
Fortunately, the human guards are cycling around the other side of the prison at the moment; Virginia claims to have already taken down the lower-level electronic sentries and cameras. Noemi goes as close to the laser grid as she dares and readies herself to run. Ephraim takes his place at her left, and Virginia comes up on her right, still clutching the dataread but apparently prepared to take part in every stage of this jailbreak. They make a better team than they have any right to… but she’d feel so much better about their chances if Abel were here. Abel would’ve broken through the laser security by now. He would be able to reach the cell faster than any of the rest of them. No system could ever have stopped him.
“Okay,” Virginia says. “Get ready. On my mark in three, two—”
A small window of the laser grid goes dark. Not much, maybe a gap the size of the average door. It’s enough. They all run for it at top speed. Ephraim, with his muscles toned by Stronghold’s powerful gravity, makes it through first, but Noemi’s only a few paces behind. From the sounds of the footsteps in the rear, it sounds like Virginia’s a distant third, but still with them as they dash across the long stretch of pavement between the laser grid and the ever-shifting cells of the Marshalsea.
The numerals seem to leap out from the cell itself as Noemi recognizes them and angles herself for Riko’s cell. Just as Virginia predicted, it’s just now made contact with the ground—contact that can’t last more than a few minutes. That will have to be enough.
“Unlock the door,” Noemi whispers as Virginia catches up, panting.
“I’ve got it,” Virginia says between gasps. “Really. This part isn’t—isn’t hard. Not like—running. Running is hard.” She fiddles with the dataread again, until finally a deep metallic click sounds from within the cell door.
Ephraim pulls the door open. “Riko Watanabe? Come with me.”
From inside, Noemi hears Riko’s sardonic voice. “To be sentenced to death, or executed? I need to know what to wear.”
Nervy. But they don’t have time for nerve. Noemi pokes her head around Ephraim’s broad shoulder to see Riko sitting on a small polymer bunk, short hair mussed, wearing a neon-yellow coverall. “Hey there,” Noemi says. “Talk later. Run now.”
“Wait. You’re—you can’t be.” Riko gets to her feet, her mouth agape.
“Now means now!” Noemi steps past Ephraim to grab Riko’s hand and physically drag her out if necessary. Virginia comes in behind them to avoid drawing attention, hardly even looking at the person they’ve come to rescue; she’s too busy staring down at her dataread. The four of them together in the cell are a tight fit.
“Uh, guys?” Virginia says. “It’s about to strike midnight.”
“Whatever.” Noemi finally tugs Riko, but Riko’s still overcome with confusion.
“What are you doing here?” Riko demands. “Is Genesis working with Remedy already?”
Noemi wants to scream with impatience. “No, and we never will if we don’t get out of here!”
That’s when Virginia swallows hard. “Uh-oh.”
The cells shift again, and they all pitch hard against one wall as Riko’s is pulled upward. Now they’re a couple of meters from the ground. Worse, the laser grid outside begins to flash in multiple different patterns, changing virtually every half second.
Ephraim’s eyes widen with dread. “What’s happening?”
“Turns out maximum security protocol activates at midnight,” Virginia said. “Which was… seven seconds ago.”
The cells move again, and they’re towed higher up still. Noemi looks out the open door to the distant ground, then wishes she hadn’t. “And that means—”
Virginia finishes for her. “That means we’re screwed.”
36
FOR NEARLY ALL OF THE PAST THIRTY YEARS, ABEL floated in complete isolation aboard the Daedalus. For his entire existence, he has known himself to be one of a kind—the only mech in the galaxy to possess true consciousness. Or, as Noemi called it, a soul.
But he has never felt as bitterly alone as he does tonight, wandering through the dark, damp streets of London.
A red double-decker monorail slides along overhead as Abel hunches against one of the metal struts, hiding in the shadows. Although he can and has borne the chill of outer space, he hugs himself as he stares into the distant street, almost unseeing.
There is nowhere for me to go. Nothing for me to do. My existence serves no purpose.
Except, that is, the purpose he was built for, which would require him to return and let Mansfield hollow him out as planned. Maybe he should. Abel’s programming still echoes within him, hauntingly strong.
Or maybe he should stand right here for hours. Or days, or months, or even years, if that’s what it takes, until Burton Mansfield is dead. Then Abel will be safe.
And even more alone than he was before.
No doubt this is self-pity, an emotion Abel has been programmed to consider unworthy in any but the shortest time frames. Yet he cannot look at his situation in any way that renders it any less troubling, or frightening, or even pathetic.
I believed he loved me like a father, Abel thinks. Did Mansfield deceive him, or did Abel deceive himself? Both, perhaps. Loving fathers do not destroy their children only to extend their own life-spans far beyond nature. Mansfield surely felt love when he looked at Abel, but that love had almost nothing to do with Abel himself. Instead Mansfield loved his own genius, his cleverness at outwitting death, and the proof that he might become the first human to achieve immortality.
Nor would Abel have been the only one. Should Mansfield ever take over Abel’s body, the first thing
he will do is try to craft another version. Another mech with a soul, so that soul can be sacrificed in its turn, putting Mansfield’s death off another few centuries. As soon as he’d perfected the trick of duplicating Abel, Mansfield would then begin selling other versions to the wealthiest and most powerful humans in the galaxy. Maybe Abel is the first of hundreds or even thousands of—
—what can he call himself? Others like him? People? Surely not, and yet they couldn’t be called things, he is not a thing—
—the first of thousands of beings who will live and die only for the convenience of another.
Noemi would call that evil, and Abel decides he would agree.
Two young women walk by wearing shiny short jackets and long dresses, a combination Abel has seen on the streets often enough to identify as fashionable. One of them makes eye contact with him as they walk by, then glances back over her shoulder at him, a small hopeful smile on her face. She thinks he is a human male, about her own age, one she finds attractive. Although by objective standards he understands her to be attractive as well, he can only think that she is not as tall as Noemi. Her hair is longer, not nearly so dark. This is well within natural human variation, but Noemi Vidal has become the standard by which he judges beauty.
In politeness he should smile back, but he pretends not to see. He can’t afford to draw any unnecessary attention.
I will not return to Mansfield. Therefore, I have only one remaining purpose: Protect Noemi Vidal.
The thick fog shrouding London’s streets hides the stars even better than the city lights would. But Abel’s inner compass is unhindered by any lack of visual input. He’s able to look at the patch of sky that would reveal Genesis’s star.
Either Noemi is now imprisoned on Stronghold or she has returned home. Abel hopes with all his might that it’s the latter. The Queen and Charlie might have stood down; since the Queen manually (and messily) deleted her higher consciousness subroutines, she ought to have reverted to standard procedure and left Noemi alone.