“What? Good lord, no. What’s the point in that?” Apparently Mansfield doesn’t think of poisoning a world as evil, only as impractical. “I have certain political connections, you know. Word reached me of Earth’s biological-warfare plans—mostly because a few government ministers felt smug about cutting back their orders for more Charlies and Queens. But I didn’t see a shortfall. I saw an opportunity. I knew once the plague took hold, Genesis would send either someone to get help or an envoy to surrender, and you were by far their likeliest candidate. Assuming you hadn’t already blown yourself up, that is. You do have a temper on you. Now, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve brought you here.”
She hadn’t gotten that far through her haze yet, but as soon as the question is suggested, she knows the answer. Her horror deepens. “You’re setting a trap for Abel.” Her voice is hardly more than a whisper. “And I’m the bait.”
“A simple bargain: his surrender for your release. He says he loves you; I suppose we’ll see, hmm?”
It’s too much. Noemi’s never shut down in a crisis; she rises to the moment. But there’s no rising to this. Genesis is dying from Cobweb. Abel’s life is in danger. She can’t even set her own feet upon the ground. If it weren’t for Mansfield standing in front of her, weak of body and poisoned in his heart, she might faint.
Instead, she gets mad as hell.
“Coward,” she growls. “You’ve had your life, but you’re taking Abel’s away from him. You can’t accept that you’re mortal. You think you should be some kind of a god.”
Mansfield hadn’t expected that. “You think it’s cowardly, the need to survive? Then every living thing’s a coward, every living thing in the galaxy.”
Which is total crap. Noemi has been afraid to die, but she never let that fear stop her from doing what she needed to do—or force her into doing something so profoundly wrong.
She would tell him that, but he keeps talking. “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you how useless flesh is? How pointless? Consciousness is an accident of evolution, and I intend to liberate it from its visceral beginnings.” Mansfield’s voice has become dreamy. “Some people deserve to live forever. Some of us have shown that spark of the divine. But most people are automatons, as surely as any mech is. Being human is no guarantee of being fully conscious. The vast majority think what they’re told to think. Do what they’re told to do. Live their whole lives within the dull, safe borders of conformity and complacency. Maybe they should die on schedule, just like they’ve done everything else. Those of us who want more, who can offer more—we shouldn’t be shackled to mortality.”
“You think you should get to decide who lives and who dies.” Millions will die on Genesis. Abel will die. “You’re sick.”
Mansfield shakes his head as if fondly exasperated with her. Nothing she says can touch him. “You, with your knee-jerk temper and your Genesis prejudices—you’re as much a mech as anything I ever created in here.”
She realizes she’s in some sort of a basement, one with brick walls and slender windows at the very top. Laid out all around her are tanks—long, coffin-shaped, translucent containers filled with goo. From Akide’s lessons, she knows tanks like this are for growing mechs. “Where are we?”
“My house. In fact, the most important part of the house, my personal workshop and laboratory,” says Mansfield. “This is where I did all my finest work. The entire history of the galaxy would be different without this room.”
This must have been where Abel was born. Where Mansfield attempted to make so many other versions of Abel, and failed every time. “How many of your creations did you kill here?”
“‘Kill’ isn’t the right word, my dear.”
“Isn’t it? They live. They breathe. They bleed. Abel wants and thinks and hopes and—” The word loves won’t come out of her mouth. “How is destroying one of them less a murder than it would be if you destroyed your own child, or grandchild?”
“Stop.” Mansfield’s tone could turn this room to ice.
Noemi realizes she’s hit a sensitive subject. She’s not sure what it is, but it’s a vulnerable spot, so she keeps pressing. “Abel deserves better from you.”
“I gave him his life. I’m trusting him with my soul. And you’re not the one in charge of deciding who deserves what.”
Noemi tries to move within her force field, and with difficulty she reaches her hand to the metal frame—and encounters sharpness. It’s covered with long metal points, ensuring no prisoners will be able to tamper with their newfound jail.
Taking no notice of her futile movements, Mansfield continues, “Now, Miss Vidal, there’s nothing much left for us to do but wait. I can find Abel wherever in the Loop he may be, but it could take a little time, so I’ve given him a generous deadline. We’ve already dosed you with a few things that will keep you from needing the facilities anytime soon, which means we need just one more—damn it, left it in the tank. My memory’s going.”
He falters on the last words. The image of invulnerability he has tried to project shatters. Noemi sees a little old man, scared of his body’s breakdown, more fragile than ever before.
Mansfield carefully goes to a tank filled with some kind of coolant and removes something from a canister inside. Only when he totters back to the Tare does Noemi see that he’s holding a tiny golden pellet. The Tare loads it into a syringe, then pushes her hand through the force field—sparks flying off her skin—to capture Noemi’s wrist in her vise-like grip. Before Noemi can even try to pull back, the Tare presses the device to Noemi’s inner arm and a jolt of pain spears through her flesh.
“That little ampule won’t do you any harm,” Mansfield says. She can feel the knot inside, uncomfortably wedged in next to a nerve. “Unless I trigger it to release, that is. Which I won’t do, assuming Abel arrives on time. So no need to worry, right?”
Will she finally see Abel again, only to watch him die for her?
8
ABEL’S INTERNAL CLOCK IS AS FINELY CALIBRATED AS any atomic clock. He knows down to the fraction of a second how much time he has left to save Noemi.
Forty-seven hours, three minutes, twenty seconds.
“So he wants you to go to his house in London,” Virginia says as she and Abel huddle together in the Razer hideout to plan. “But you think he’ll be holding Noemi there, too? Not at, you know, a second, undisclosed location?”
“I approximate the probability of Noemi’s imprisonment in Mansfield’s home at 88.82 percent.”
Virginia’s nose wrinkles in confusion. “That can’t be the most secure place.”
“Mansfield can control virtually every mech in existence,” Abel replies. “He can secure any location he wishes. His health wouldn’t permit him to move around very much.”
He remembers the last time they were together, how fragile Mansfield was, how Abel had felt so protective of his elderly creator. All that time, Mansfield had planned to kill him that very night.
Virginia leans close. “Cray to Abel. Cray calling Abel. Come in.”
As though he hadn’t stopped speaking, he continues, “The house is the most logical base of operations. What we must determine is the exact nature of the threat to Noemi, so that I can arrive prepared to counteract it.”
Forty-five hours, two minutes, twenty-eight seconds.
“If you screw up my ride,” Virginia says, one finger in Abel’s face, “and fail to bring it back to Cray in one piece, there won’t be anywhere in this entire galaxy far enough away for you to hide from my vengeance.”
He nods, glancing across the docking bay to see Zayan securing Virginia’s flashy red corsair in the Persephone’s bay; his movements on Earth can only remain undetected if he’s traveling in a ship that wasn’t previously owned by Burton Mansfield, one Mansfield would know how to track. Virginia’s generosity means he can dock the Persephone elsewhere but remain mobile. “Understood. If I damage the corsair, I’ll need to find a wormhole to another galaxy.”
“That’s
not what I meant!”
Twenty-three hours, thirty-seven seconds.
A landing dock in Namibia provides as good a hiding place for the Persephone as any. Long-term storage fees are reasonable, and security is tight. Abel pays Harriet and Zayan their advances and tells them farewell.
“It may be some time before I can return,” Abel says. “If the two of you find other work that interests you, I’ll understand if you choose to take it. But I hope you’ll decide to stay.”
They look at each other in mutual, almost comic disbelief before Zayan says, “Abel, do you really not get it? We’d never make this much doing anything but radium mining.” The radium mines on Stronghold’s largest moon are notorious for paying well but providing inadequate radiation shielding. Miners regularly die within five years of taking the job. Some people take it anyway. “Besides, we like you.”
More subdued, Harriet says, “Noemi’s a survivor. If anyone can make it through, she can. And you’d better come back to us safe and sound, too. Got it?”
“Got it.” Abel finds her words illogical. No one can know the future. But he is unexpectedly pleased to realize how concerned Harriet and Zayan are about his welfare. These people he met only months ago care for him more truly than his “father” ever did.
They depart on a noontime shuttle to Rangpur to visit Zayan’s family. For no reason he can name, Abel watches their shuttle take off and fly away until the distant dot in the sky disappears from even the farthest range of his vision.
Twenty-two hours, thirty-six seconds.
One hour provides sufficient time between Harriet and Zayan’s departure and his own that no random security check should find any link between the two. The instant he can, Abel slides the corsair’s cockpit closed and prepares to fly.
Virginia’s corsair is a top-of-the-line personal cruiser. It can seat three at most, and sleeps perhaps two, assuming those individuals are sexually involved or extremely good friends. The lone mag engine may not compare to the massive ones on the Persephone, but it’s powerful enough to take this ship from one side of a system to another in good time. While the interior is luxurious, the exterior is even more flamboyant to Abel’s eyes. Shiny red paint, exaggerated curves, chrome trim and fins that serve no aerodynamic purpose: The aesthetic reminds him of ancient automobiles of the mid-twentieth century.
It’s also a ship that tends to attract attention, but Abel isn’t worried about that. Mansfield believes he has the situation under control. He’ll expect nothing from Abel but compliance.
The vision clarifies in Abel’s mind so swiftly, so vividly, that it feels almost real: Walking into Burton Mansfield’s home again, hearing the soft chimes of the grandfather clock, seeing Mansfield sitting in an easy chair with his hands outstretched. Mansfield saying, “You came back. You came to save me after all.”
“Yes, Father. I could never abandon you.”
If this were actually to happen, Abel would swiftly be shown into the basement laboratory, invited to lie down on a metal table, and, he suspects, be strapped down. Mansfield wouldn’t trust him not to change his mind.
But when Abel imagines the scene, he envisions a different ending:
Mansfield saying, “I could never hurt you, my boy.” Holding out his arms. “Your girl is safe. I’m so sorry. Everything’s all right again.”
Abel being folded in his creator’s embrace. “I love you, Father.”
“I love you, too.”
Directive One should be such a simple piece of programming to obey, but it turns against him sometimes, providing dreams like that one. Delusions. Falsehoods. Directive One lies. He must remember that.
The ready lights glow green on the corsair’s console. Abel hits ignition, and the corsair streaks upward, aiming beyond the sky.
Twenty-one hours, twenty-six minutes, two seconds.
London looks even more worn-down to Abel than it did when he was last here not quite six months prior. Upon reviewing his memory files, he cannot justify this impression; the state of disrepair is actually very similar. But apparently something deep within him insists upon comparing this to the London he remembers from thirty years ago, the one that still possessed more of its vitality and hope. For him, that past vision is more real than reality.
A curious paradox. He’ll have to discuss that with—someone, someday.
After stowing Virginia’s corsair in a public dock, using a false name, he hurries to a public-access info station. This takes him through Trafalgar Square, past the remnant of Nelson’s Column that still stands after a lightning strike a century before. The bustle of a large Earth city is like nothing anywhere else in the galaxy: the crush of humans, the numerous mechs of every model hurrying about their labors, storefront lights, banners in front of museums advertising the few great works of art not yet in private hands. Abel has read that most people support the sale of classic paintings and statues because only individual collectors will take them offworld. Humanity wants these works to survive Earth. It’s a beautiful impulse in its way—though Abel would admire it more if humankind could’ve spared some of that concern for Earth itself.
The info station provides private booths for an extra fee. Abel settles himself into one—a tall, narrow room with walls, ceiling, and floor as black as obsidian. Its metallic darkness is broken only by the slender control bar, a single line of silver.
His first action is to input codes that should make it difficult to trace his location. Mansfield will know he’s being contacted from someplace on planet Earth, but no more than that. Only then does he send a signal to Mansfield’s home. (The contact information for his creator’s domicile was programmed into him before his awakening as a conscious being. Burton Mansfield never wanted Abel to stray far.)
A hologram shimmers into existence, revealing a standard Charlie model. It speaks first. “Model One A. You will be linked momentarily.” Then it shimmers out.
There’s a seat in the booth, as black as its surroundings, but Abel remains standing. He will not bow before Mansfield. Reminding himself of the minutiae of human body language and arranging himself to project confidence, he braces himself for the sight of his creator.
The hologram shimmers back into brightness, taking on human form. But it’s not Mansfield before him.
Noemi seems to be suspended in air. She wears the black tank and leggings that go beneath a Genesis flight suit. Her arm bears a red mark along its inner curve, and her chin-length hair is unkempt. Her head is tilted to the side, buoyed by what must be a force field, and her eyes are shut. Noemi’s muscles are slack. Abel’s first thought is that she’s dead. Mansfield broke his word. Or the mechs got the deadline wrong. They’ve killed her—
Before that terrible pain can fully pierce his shock, however, Abel realizes her chest is rising and falling with slow, even breaths. She’s alive, but unconscious. A Tare steps closer and presses a syringe against Noemi’s arm, and then she twitches. She struggles against the force field that holds her as she becomes fully conscious. Her eyes focus on him at last, and her horror matches his own. “Abel!”
“Noemi,” he breathes. He seems to know no word but her name. How many times he’s longed to see her just one more time—but never would he have wanted to see her like this, his fierce, strong Noemi held captive and afraid.
But she wastes no time on her own fate. “Don’t turn yourself into Mansfield, no matter what. Do you hear me?”
Abel still doesn’t intend to surrender, but he can’t say that during a conversation he assumes is being listened to. “I have to make sure you’re safe—”
“Forget me! You have to save Genesis.” At first he thinks she’s still delirious from the sedatives she must’ve been given, but she’s in earnest. “Earth sent Cobweb to Genesis—biological weapons, and they’ve engineered it to be so much worse—the whole planet’s sick—”
He understands Earth’s strategy instantly. Biological warfare has never played a large role in human conflict, largely because such v
iruses and bacteria tend to backfire. They spread beyond borders on a map. They ignore the color of uniforms. They infect target and shooter alike. But to use them against a completely different planet? How safe. How simple. Earth will wait until the pandemic has fully run its course—ensuring the virus dies out for a lack of hosts, and will be unable to infect any invaders—then strike with full force. This could end the war within weeks. Their plan is as effective as it is morally reprehensible.
Abel extrapolates all of this within 1.41 seconds, without ever losing focus on Noemi’s stricken face.
She pleads, “You have to find Ephraim. Do you understand what I mean? Get out of here and find Ephraim. Save Genesis.”
“I can’t leave you to Mansfield—”
“Yes, you can.” Her stubbornness has returned to her. Even as a captive, Noemi still has the same fire burning within her. “I volunteered for the Masada Run, Abel. I was ready to give my life for my world. That’s exactly what I’m doing now.”
Abel completely comprehends her plan; his mental circuits swiftly trace the path from Ephraim Dunaway to the moderate wing of Remedy, with its medical connections, and then to improved antiviral drugs that might give Genesis a chance to recover. He feels sure he can activate that plan without surrendering either her life or his.
Still, he can’t say so in the hologram. “Hold on. I’ll find a way out of this.”
She shakes her head. Her dark brown eyes well with tears. “On Genesis, sometimes, I’d wonder what I would say to you if I ever saw you again, and I decided—it’s just, thank you. Thank you for loving me. At least I know someone did, just for once in my life.”
“Noemi—”
But the hologram fades out, only to be replaced by an image of Mansfield. His creator could well look mocking and superior—he has the power, and they both know it—or he could try to be fatherly and warm, in the manner that always deceived Abel before. Instead Mansfield looks… shaken. Even stricken. He says, “The terms of our deal have changed.”