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 g reat—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 35
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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 . . . W here 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. 36
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“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! 37
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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. 38
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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. 39
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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 beings 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 40
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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.
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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 d ark-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. 42
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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. 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. 43
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Yes, he might find out that Burton Mansfield is h ere— 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 44
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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 d ifferent—” “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 d ay—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. 45
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••• 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 h ere—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. 46
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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 Mans field 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?”
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