Abel thinks through the intruder’s options, makes a decision. Instead of prolonging their firefight, he turns and runs toward sick bay. He’s fast enough to reach the door before the first blaster bolt hits the wall nearby, and to get inside before she can pursue. As soon as the sick bay door slides shut behind him, he wheels around, locks the door, and…
… stops.
His programming is clear. Check the cryosleep pods. Look for Mansfield.
But his emotional processes appear to have morphed considerably during his thirty years, because he doesn’t want to turn around to look at sick bay.
Yes, he might find out that Burton Mansfield is here—but he might also find out that Mansfield is long gone, or long dead. He’s borne the suspense for so long that he finds himself afraid of certainty. He wants to stay in this box with Schrödinger’s cat forever.
Lights around the door lock begin to flash, warning him of a power surge. As Abel had anticipated, the intruder has set her blaster to maximum in an effort to blow the lock. Within ninety seconds, the door will open. After overload, the Genesis warrior will have only one or two shots left in her weapon. Although Abel is confident he can dodge those shots, she might miss and hit the cryosleep pods.
The risk breaks his hesitation. Abel turns and looks.
All signs indicate the cryosleep pods are not in use. Verify.
As the faint whine of the overloading blaster slides to a higher pitch, Abel moves to the panels and double-checks. Confirmed. Nobody lies in any of the cryosleep chambers. It does not appear they were ever activated.
The Daedalus’s human passengers, including Burton Mansfield, abandoned ship thirty years ago, and they have never come back.
“They can’t get their hands on the Gate readouts,” said Captain Gee. On the viewscreen dome of the bridge, the Genesis fighters blew up another Damocles, a few hundred mechs smashed in an instant. “You, there. Mech. Extract the hard memory elements, launch them through the Gate, now.”
Abel turned to obey the senior officer aboard, but stopped as Mansfield said, “We’re not abandoning ship without Abel.”
Captain Gee snapped, “If the thing can get to the docking bay in time to leave with us, great! If not, just build another one!”
Few people spoke to Burton Mansfield that way. He drew himself upright, and his deep voice seemed to fill the darkness of the bridge. “Abel is different—”
“It’s a machine! I’ve got human lives here to save.” Captain Gee turned toward Abel, frowning when she realized he hadn’t budged. “Is it not working?”
Abel hesitated one instant longer as Mansfield looked at the enormous star field view through the screen that covered two walls and the entire domed ceiling of the bridge. The tide of battle had turned. Genesis would have the day—and, shortly, this ship, if they wanted it.
The Daedalus itself shuddered as it took its first direct weapons fire. Quietly Mansfield said, “Abel, go. Hurry.”
And Abel ran as fast as he could, removed the relevant hard data elements from the computer core quicker than any human ever could have, carried it to the equipment pod bay within four minutes, and launched it at the direct center of the Gate with no delays. He even closed and sealed the outer pod bay doors before the gravity and power snapped off, stranding him in a dark, weightless void.
The whine of the blaster outside has risen a full octave. Abel stares at the empty shells of the cryosleep pods on the wall, as translucent as cicada husks in the reddish emergency lights, then takes up his own weapon again as he turns toward the door.
Sparks flash white; the metal door jerks open amid puffs of smoke. Abel steps out of range, out of sight. Nobody fires. From the total silence, he surmises that the Genesis soldier isn’t even moving.
He knows how little firepower she has left. She does as well. One shot, maybe two. The intruder needs the supplies in this sick bay so badly she effectively disarmed herself to get in here—but now she has to finish him off with a single blast. That opportunity is one he doesn’t have to give her. Abel could easily wait in sick bay to kill her for hours, days, another thirty years if need be. He doesn’t even have to sleep.
(Although he can, and does. During the last thirty years he’s slept quite a lot. Abel has even begun to dream, a development he would very much like to discuss with Burton Mansfield.
Someday.)
But his programming calls for a different plan of action now.
Abel walks away from the cryosleep pods, deliberately treading heavily enough for his opponent to hear. She knows he’s coming, and she won’t fire immediately; instead she’s hanging on for the kill shot at close range.
So he deliberately steps into view at the far end of sick bay, where enough smoke swirls that the Genesis soldier will hold off for another moment.
That’s all he needs to turn his own blaster around, surrendering the weapon to her.
She stares. She’s braced with her back against the wall, blaster held with both hands, shaking. Humans are so excitable. A few strands of her chin-length black hair cling to her sweaty forehead and cheek. Although her brown eyes widen when he keeps walking forward, she doesn’t panic. Doesn’t fire.
“My name is Abel,” he says. “Model One A of the Mansfield Cybernetics mech line. My programming dictates that I am bound to serve the highest human authority aboard this vessel. As of now, that authority is you.”
He holds out the weapon. When she doesn’t take it, he simply sets it on the floor and kicks it toward her. It feels so good to be able to obey his programming again. To have a purpose.
Abel smiles. “What are my orders?”
7
COUNT TO FIVE, NOEMI DECIDES.
If she’s cracking up—if the terror of the past few minutes has scrambled her mind to the point where she’s hallucinating—then this will all go away in a couple of seconds. If this is for real, the mech will be standing here waiting for orders when she’s done.
One. The mech remains still, expression curious and patient.
Two. Noemi takes a deep breath. She remains in her crouch, hand clutching her blaster so tightly her fingers have begun to cramp.
Three. Abel. The mech said its name was Abel. We were taught that there are twenty-five models of mech in the Mansfield Cybernetics line, alphabetical from B to Z. A was for a prototype.
Four. Abel’s face and posture haven’t shifted in the slightest. Would it stand here for an hour? A whole day? At any rate, it hasn’t made any move to get its weapon back.
Five.
Noemi grabs Abel’s blaster. “My friend in the docking bay—she needs medical help, now.”
“Understood. I’ll bring her to sick bay.” Abel takes off down the hallway so quickly that Noemi first thinks it’s escaping—but it’s apparently following her orders, just like it said it would.
Shoving herself to her feet, Noemi runs after the mech, unwilling to let the thing out of her sight even though she knows she can’t possibly keep up.
From Darius Akide’s lectures on mechs, Noemi knows the A model was an experimental model never put into mass production. Could the mech be lying about what it is? Its programming could potentially allow it to lie. But like everyone else on Genesis, she has memorized the faces of every single model of mech. According to her history books, they used to fear infiltration, in the early days of the Liberty War. What if the machines had walked among them, pretending to be human, spying on them all?
While the Queens and Charlies are most familiar to her, Noemi could identify any of Mansfield’s mechs on sight—and she’s never seen this Abel’s face before.
Okay, you found a prototype. It doesn’t matter how it got out here as long as you can use it. Take care of Esther and worry about the rest later.
Her footsteps pound a staccato drumbeat along the corridor as Noemi dashes back to the docking bay. Panting, she stops in the doorway to stare at the scene in front of her. Abel leans over Esther’s damaged fighter, gently scooping her into its a
rms. Esther’s head lolls back as she murmurs, “Who—who are—”
“It’s a mech,” Noemi calls as she ditches her nearly dead blaster, then holsters Abel’s to her side. “The ship has a fully equipped sick bay. See? We can take care of you.”
Abel moves slowly, deliberately, until Esther rests against its chest in a firm embrace. Then Noemi barely has time to get out of the way before it rushes out, moving at a speed no human could match.
When she gets all the way back up to sick bay, Esther’s lying on a biobed. Abel’s deft fingers move across the controls so swiftly they seem to blur. Noemi goes to Esther’s side and takes her hand.
“The sensors are still assessing her condition,” Abel reports. “But I predict they’ll confirm preliminary findings of internal bleeding, multiple pelvic fractures, and a mild-to-moderate concussion. If internal bleeding is confirmed, she’ll need an immediate transfusion. I’ve administered pain medication.”
Enough medication to leave Esther dazed, her eyes half closed and her facial muscles slack—Good, Noemi thinks. Esther needs that. And the nauseous weight in her gut lessens, because those injuries sound survivable. Fixable. At least, if this Abel mech actually knows what it’s doing. “How are you—” She has to stop and gulp in another few breaths before she can continue talking. “You’re one of the medical models? I thought—thought that was the Tare mech.”
“To the best of my knowledge, the Tare mech remains the primary medical model,” Abel says, as amiably as if they were having tea. The ozone-seared air still stinks of their battle only minutes before. “However, I am programmed with the knowledge, skills, and specialties of the entire Mansfield Cybernetics line.” It glances over from the readouts to study Noemi’s face for a moment. “You’re experiencing extreme shortness of breath. This shouldn’t represent an emergency unless you have any underlying medical conditions. Do you?”
“What? No.” It’s so strange, talking to a mech. Standing beside one. It feels just like standing next to a person, even though nothing could be further from the truth. “I just—pushed myself. That’s all.”
“You could’ve remained in sick bay instead of following me down,” it points out.
“I don’t trust you.”
“I wasn’t asking for a justification for your actions. Humans have many reasons for behaving in an inefficient or irrational manner.” Abel’s tone is so mild that it takes Noemi a moment to recognize the insult.
But that’s stupid. She’s anthropomorphizing a mech—a recruit’s mistake, one she should be past. Apparently this prototype’s innovations don’t include tact.
The dark, glistening stuff in the bags Abel brings out must be synthetic blood. He’s very sure about that transfusion. Some faiths on Genesis won’t use synthetic blood, others won’t accept transfusions at all, but Esther’s family doesn’t belong to one of those.
Noemi imagines the Gatsons standing before her, tall and pale, their expressions disapproving. How could you let this happen? they might say. You were supposed to protect our daughter. After everything we did for you, how could you let her be hurt?
Smoothly, the mech slips the needle into Esther’s skin. Not a flicker of discomfort shows on her face. Is she that doped up, or is the mech that good? Probably both, Noemi decides. While Abel works, she studies its—his face in greater depth. There really is something different about this one. He looks younger than most mechs, as if he’s perhaps two or three years older she is. Instead of the customary, blandly appealing mech features, he has a distinctive face with piercing blue eyes, a strong nose, and, if she recalls correctly, a slightly asymmetrical smile.
Why make a mech so… specific? And so advanced? Akide had told them that mechs were calibrated to the level of intelligence they required for their duties, nothing more. Extra intelligence would only be a complication, another way for a mech to break down. There were even laws against developing mech intelligence too far, or there had been, the last anyone on Genesis heard about Earth laws. If Abel is telling her the truth—and by now she believes he is—he represents a significant step forward in cybernetics development.
Except that he can’t be. This ship was abandoned many years ago. As she brushes a strand of hair away from Esther’s cheek, Noemi asks, “How long have you been aboard the Daedalus?”
“Not quite thirty years,” Abel says. “I can provide the exact time down to the nanosecond if required.”
“It isn’t.” It so, so isn’t.
“I doubted it would be.” Abel turns away from the medical readouts to face her directly. “Upon further examination, the patient’s liver appears to be ruptured, and the internal bleeding is more severe than initially indicated. Surgery will be required.”
Noemi’s abdomen knots in sympathetic pain. “But—if Esther loses her liver, she won’t survive.”
Abel walks away from the biobed, toward various storage chambers—even past a few cryosleep pods against the wall. “The Daedalus is stocked with artificial organs in case emergency transplants are needed.”
She bites her lower lip. Although Genesis has retained more medical technology than any other kind, artificial organs are used very rarely. Yes, life is precious and must be preserved, but death is accepted as a part of life. Unnaturally avoiding death is seen as an act of futility, sometimes even one of cowardice. The Gatsons are particularly strict about these things. They spent weeks debating whether or not Mr. Gatson should even have laser surgery on his eyes.
This is different. Esther’s only seventeen! She was injured trying to protect our world. Noemi didn’t sign up for the Masada Run only to have Esther die anyway. “All right,” she says. “All right. Do it.”
From the biobed comes a whisper: “Don’t.”
Noemi looks down to see Esther gazing up. Her skin, always fair, has turned waxen. One of her pale green eyes is horribly marred, deep red where it ought to be white. But she’s awake.
“It’s okay.” Noemi tries to smile. “I’m here. Do you need more pain meds?”
“It doesn’t hurt.” Esther sighs deeply. Her eyelids droop, but for only a moment. She’s fighting so hard to stay awake. “No transplant.”
It’s like the chill of space outside the ship’s hull rushed in to freeze Noemi’s blood. She feels adrift, exposed, vulnerable. Like she’s the one in mortal danger instead of Esther. “No, no, it’s all right. This is an emergency—”
“It would make me part machine. That isn’t human life. Not the life I was given.”
Please, God, no. God doesn’t speak to Noemi’s heart, no matter how often she prays for guidance. But maybe he’ll speak to Esther’s. Show her it’s more important to stay alive no matter what. The Gatsons raised them so strictly, and Esther’s always obeyed her parents. Now, though—who could argue with this?
“Esther, please.” Noemi’s voice has begun to shake. “If you don’t have the transplant, you’ll die.”
“I know.” Esther feebly moves her hand, searching for Noemi’s; Noemi takes it and hangs on tight. Esther’s skin is growing cold. “I knew as soon as the mech tore through my ship. Please—don’t argue while we’re saying good-bye—”
“To hell with good-bye!” Noemi will make this up to Esther later. “You. Abel. Perform the transplant.”
Abel, who’s been standing in the middle of sick bay through this entire conversation, shakes his head no. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“You just said you had all the talents of every mech ever! Were you lying?”
“I don’t mean that I am incapable of performing the transplant.” If she didn’t know better, she’d think Abel was offended. “And I cannot lie to you, as my commander.”
“That’s right. I’m your commander.” Noemi seizes onto this, the one weapon she has that might make Abel stop arguing and move, dammit. “So you have to follow my orders, and I’m ordering you to perform the transplant.”
“Noemi—” Esther whispers. The weakness in her voice slices through Noemi like a blad
e, but she doesn’t let herself look away from the mech. Abel is Esther’s only hope.
He doesn’t take a single step closer as he says, “Your authority over me is subject to a few strictly limited exceptions. One of those exceptions is that I must obey the wishes of a medical patient regarding end-of-life decisions. Esther’s choice is therefore final.”
Damn, damn, damn! The same programming that saved her life is endangering Esther’s. Why would Mansfield build legions of killing machines and then program them with mock morality? Just one more way the people of Earth fool themselves into accepting the machines in their midst, like the human skin and hair. Noemi wants to scream at Abel but knows it would do no good. Programming is final. Absolute.
Instead she bends closer to Esther, brushing her friend’s pale-gold hair away from her face. “If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for me. We’re on this spaceship out in the middle of nowhere, and I need your help to—to—”
But it’s not help she needs. It’s Esther herself. Noemi knows she’s only made one real friend in her life, but she only ever needed one, because it was Esther, who knew every awful thing about her and loved her anyhow. Noemi’s bad temper and awkwardness and distrust—the same stuff that pushed Mr. and Mrs. Gatson and Jemuel and everybody else away—Esther was the only person who didn’t think those things mattered. The only one who ever would.
A sob bubbles up in Noemi’s throat, but she chokes it back to whisper, once again, “Please. You’re supposed to be the one who goes back. You’re the one who’s going to make it.” The one who can be happy. The one who can be good, who can love and be loved. Noemi can only be the one left over.
“You were willing to die for me,” Esther says. For one moment she’s really able to focus on Noemi; maybe the blood flowing into her is helping a little. “At least now you won’t have to. Not if you take your name off the list. You can now. Promise me you will.”