Defy the Stars

by Claudia Gray

  Noemi stands in front of the biobed, hugging herself, and doesn’t turn when she hears the sick bay doors slide open. Abel’s smart enough not to come too close at first. “If my suggestion earlier gave offense, I apologize.”

  She shrugs. “You’re programmed to say that, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Figures.

  “It should’ve been me,” Noemi says, not to Abel, not to anyone really. “She had something to go back to. People who are going to miss her. Who loved her.” Noemi only had Esther, and now she has no one.

  Abel doesn’t reply. Probably there’s no preprogrammed response to that.

  “She’s not a thing, okay? Not a piece of refuse for us to toss out. Esther was someone, and you have to remember that.”

  “I will.” But immediately he tries again. “Whenever you feel it appropriate, we can proceed with whatever method of… burial you prefer.”

  Probably he was going to say disposal.

  “I know we have to do something, but I can’t just leave Esther lying there in space.” Noemi still feels as if she’s talking to herself. “I can’t leave her alone in the cold. Anything but that.”

  Abel remains silent long enough that she wonders if dealing with an actual human, with actual feelings, has fried his circuits. But finally he asks, “It is the cold that bothers you?”

  You don’t know what cold means, she wants to answer. He’d probably answer her with the freezing points of various elements in centigrade, Fahrenheit, and Kelvin. So Noemi explains what haunts her. “There’s nothing lonelier than that. Than being cold and alone, and lost.” She swallows hard to keep her voice from choking off. “When I was eight, my family was going into the woods—at wintertime—”

  Where exactly were they going? To build snowmen? To see one of the frozen waterfalls? Noemi can’t remember. Sometimes it feels as if the story would make more sense if she could only remember why they were out there in the first place.

  “Our skimmer hit a bomb from the Liberty War, one that hadn’t exploded during whatever battle had taken place long ago. It had just been lying there all this time. The snow had covered the shell, so my parents never saw it. They just drove over it, and then—”

  Noemi doesn’t remember this part either. For this bit of amnesia, however, she feels grateful. She doesn’t know what their screams sounded like, or even whether they screamed at all.

  “When I came to, they were dead. Or dying, maybe. I couldn’t tell. But they were all gone. Mom, Dad, my baby brother. His name was Rafael, but he was still so little I just called him baby. We lay there in the bloody snow for so long—it seemed like forever, and they were so cold. So cold.”

  Her throat closes up again. For an instant she feels as if she can recall the time before the crash—her mother’s laugh, the weight of her tiny brother in her lap. But those aren’t real memories. Just her imagination trying to fill in the gaps. The only real memories are those of blood, the smell of smoke, and Noemi shivering in the wreckage, unable to understand why she didn’t die, too.

  Abel steps closer. Probably he’ll tell her that nothing in her past is relevant, that her objections are illogical.

  Instead he says, “The star, then.”

  Noemi turns to him. “What?”

  “We could bury Esther in Kismet’s star. Nothing is warmer or brighter. Of course she’d be cremated, but you would still have a sort of grave where you could mourn her. You would always be able to find this star in the sky.”

  She stares at him, speechless.

  Abel ventures, “The star is visible from Genesis’s northern hemisphere, given good weather conditions.”

  “I know. I just—” I can’t understand how a mere machine could think of that. Abel’s idea is sensitive. Even kind. Noemi knows Esther would have approved. Her friend will become part of a star that warms and nurtures an entire world. “That’s good. We’ll do that.”

  He seems relieved. She hadn’t realized, before this, that he’d been tense. “Let me know when you wish to proceed.”

  “Now.” Waiting will only put Genesis at risk. Noemi has to complete her mission before the Masada Run, or else hundreds of people will die, including Captain Baz, all their friends—and maybe Jemuel, too. After this, he might volunteer for the Masada Run himself. Esther wouldn’t want that. “Let’s go.”

  The only possible coffin is Esther’s damaged scout. They can’t use it any longer, and it’s one less thing she and Abel will have to explain to the authorities on Kismet. Abel carries Esther’s body back to the docking bay and sets her back into the bloodied mess of her cockpit. As he checks the instrumentation, Noemi leans over Esther and brushes a few stray locks of hair from her face.

  “Here,” she whispers as she folds Esther’s hands around Noemi’s own rosary. Esther wasn’t Catholic, but it’s all Noemi has to give. “I love you.”

  If Abel thinks speaking to the dead is ridiculous, he gives no sign. He simply sets the scout ship’s controls as the Daedalus soars closer to Kismet’s star. They both leave the docking bay so the air lock can be sealed but, without being asked, Abel instantly brings up the image of the star on the nearest wall monitor.

  Noemi feels the small shudder deep within the ship as the rover launches. She ought to pray, she knows, but she can’t even find the heart for that. Within moments, a tiny streak lances through the dark sky around Kismet’s sun. For one split second, Esther’s coffin is a dark speck against that brightness—and then it’s gone.

  Now she’s sunshine, Noemi thinks. Tears well in her eyes, but she blinks fast, refusing to let them fall.

  Glancing sideways, she sees Abel studying her while trying very hard to look as if he isn’t. There’s something about Abel that’s almost too intelligent. Too knowing. He’s less like a device, more like another person. And his idea of burying Esther within a star showed something so close to compassion.…

  But no. Abel’s supposed kindness must be like the rest of his careful programming and his pleasing appearance: a disguise meant to deceive. Noemi can’t afford to forget that this is merely a machine, one she can use to save her world.

  “All right,” she says hoarsely. “On to Kismet.”

  He hesitates, then replies, “My estimates of your mission prep time and flight time to the Gate are necessarily inexact. However, I know that the battle with the Damocles ship, our first encounter aboard the Daedalus”—encounter, how tactful—“and everything that has happened since has taken long enough that I’d estimate that you’ve been awake for at least twenty-four hours straight. In addition, you have been under considerable physical and emotional stress. You are no longer in prime operating condition. Please reconsider your decision to go without sleep.”

  Noemi pauses. “You don’t change course. You don’t send any communications. You don’t do anything that I haven’t expressly ordered you to do unless it’s necessary to keep the ship from being destroyed. Those are your orders. You’ll obey them?”

  “Of course.”

  Without another word, she turns and walks back up the corridor, around the long swirl of the spiral, until she reaches the first set of crew quarters. It’s a small bedroom, military stark. Suits Noemi fine. She activates the lock, flops down on the bed fully dressed in her exosuit, and falls asleep almost before she closes her eyes.

  Noemi barely has time to realize how good it feels to let go. To leave everything to Abel for a while.

  12

  ABEL CAN’T SABOTAGE NOEMI VIDAL’S EFFORTS OR DIS-obey her orders, nor does he intend to try… but he has to admit, she wasn’t wrong to wonder about his intentions. Although he can’t work against her, he can act on his own initiative in other ways. Nor is he required to tell her he’s doing so.

  He’d smile at the thought of outwitting her, were he not so focused as he walks to the ship’s small engine room, which contains a secondary communications console. He can’t call for help, can’t do anything else that would put Noemi at risk, but he can fin
ally satisfy the curiosity that has burned so brightly within him for the past thirty years.

  As soon as he’s at the engine room comms console, he runs a search for the name Burton Mansfield. Instantly the ship begins reaching out to the satellites and ships in the Kismet system, gleaning whatever information it can find.

  Will his creator have died? Did he perish escaping the Daedalus? Thirty years later, Abel still cannot bear not knowing. When the screen lights up, his breath catches in his throat—a human reflex, one that survives deep in his human DNA.

  The results he sees don’t tell Abel as much as the results that he doesn’t. No obituaries or memorials are shown, and a person of Mansfield’s stature would surely have received many after his death. Therefore, Mansfield is alive.

  It doesn’t matter that Abel will never get to see him again, not compared to the fact that his creator has survived. The emotion this knowledge inspires—this transcendent inner light—is that joy? Abel hopes so. He has wanted to feel joy at least once.

  He wishes he could at least inform Mansfield of his fate. Even though Mansfield is unlikely to be able to provide any sort of rescue, Abel would like to tell his creator, his “father,” about his many years of solitude and the strange changes within his thought and emotion matrices. The information might prove useful in future cybernetics experiments.

  However, there’s very little information about precisely what Burton Mansfield is currently doing. No press releases have been issued for quite some time. No conferences. The last new paper appears to have been published almost a decade ago. Of course Mansfield must now be elderly by human standards; probably he’s enjoying a well-deserved retirement. But it’s strange to think about him growing old while Abel has stayed so nearly the same.

  Nor does Mansfield appear to have made any significant advances in cybernetics. Abel calls up the current specs and sees that the same twenty-five models of mech are still in production, Baker through Zebra. Appearances have been tweaked, with new hairstyles and body proportions to reflect changes in taste, and apparently fixes have been applied to patch old flaws and vulnerabilities. The fundamentals of strengths, skills, and intelligence remain the same.

  This is useful tactical information for Abel to have. However, he finds himself gratified on a level that has nothing to do with any rational purpose. As the screen projects soft green light on his face, he even smiles.

  Mansfield has never made another mech as intelligent as Abel. Nor one as skilled, or as capable of learning. In other words, Mansfield has never tried to replace him.

  Noemi Vidal may destroy Abel, but she can’t take this one truth away from him: He remains Mansfield’s ultimate creation.

  Once the Daedalus is within an hour of Kismet, Abel wonders how best to awaken Noemi. Via intra-ship comms? Going to her door? As he’s formulating the questions, however, she returns to the bridge, alert, freshly bathed (judging by the faint soapy scent), and wearing civilian attire that belonged to Captain Gee.

  Highly questionable civilian attire, in Abel’s opinion—a shapeless gray tunic and loose pants too old for Noemi, which paradoxically makes her look even younger than she is. She might be a child playing dress-up. However, her voice is firm as she says, “We’re approaching the planet?”

  Abel doesn’t have to answer, because the communications panel at the ops station lights up with an incoming message—automated, no doubt. Noemi hesitates only for an instant before bringing it up.

  Instantly, the star field disappears from the viewscreen, replaced by a spectacular beach scene—lavender ocean and lilac sky, with fluffy clouds even brighter than the glittering white sand. A female voice warmly says, “Welcome to Kismet, where paradise awaits.” The image shifts into one of a resort with pearlescent walls, in front of which young, attractive people stroll with drinks in their hands. “Whether you’re here to get closer to the action or get away from it all, whether you’re in search of sensuality or serenity, everyone on Kismet is totally committed to making sure you enjoy the getaway you deserve. Every aspect of your experience will represent the finest our world has to offer. Please input your resort code now.”

  “Resort code?” Noemi says.

  “Very few people are allowed to immigrate permanently to Kismet.” The viewscreen shifts back to the tranquil beach scene. “Most people who come here are visitors from Earth or the more prosperous space stations within Earth’s solar system. Only the wealthiest and most privileged can afford the resorts here.”

  Noemi bites her lower lip; the violet light from the viewscreen shimmers against her black hair. “We don’t have the credits for that, do we?”

  “Not even close,” Abel confirms. “I’ll try sending a randomized code—if I work within their parameters, I may well come up with something close enough to at least give us permission to land.”

  As soon as Abel sends the randomized code, the beach scene blinks out, replaced by stars and a flat few lines of text: INCORRECT CODE. REPORT TO LUNAR BASE WAYLAND FOR PROCESSING OR VACATE THE KISMET SYSTEM.

  “So much for that plan,” Noemi says.

  Her tone of voice doesn’t suggest contempt. However, Abel feels an odd sensation, displeasure at having failed to crack the code combined with a specific, pointed desire that Noemi had not seen his failure. Is this what humans call embarrassment? No wonder they work so hard to avoid it.

  At least Noemi doesn’t notice his discomfort. She simply adds, “It doesn’t matter. They’ll have the part we need on that station, too, I bet.”

  “A reasonable assumption,” Abel admits.

  Kismet only has one moon, according to his data. No fully operational space stations should be in orbit. But as the Daedalus wheels around the planet, Abel wonders for a moment if the data about the space stations is wrong, because the sheer scale of the traffic goes far beyond what he would have expected.

  Cruisers. Former military ships haphazardly retrofitted for civilian use. Antique solar-sail vessels. Even a couple of old ore-haulers. Hundreds of these vessels are clustered around Kismet’s moon, no doubt hoping for landing clearance from Wayland Station. As diverse as these ships are in age, size, and original purpose, they have all been repainted in brilliant colors and patterns, or with murals of animals, flames, old-fashioned playing cards, virtually any whimsical or strange image humans could think of. Names and words are painted, too, in English, Cantonese, Spanish, Hindi, Arabic, Russian, Bantu, French, and probably more languages besides.

  “What the—” Noemi turns to Abel. “Is this what rich people do on Earth? Buy ships just to decorate them?”

  “These are older ships. While they might pass muster on Genesis, they would be considered beneath the dignity of a wealthy person from Earth.” Abel considers, then forms a new hypothesis. “I believe we have found a large gathering of Vagabonds.”

  She frowns in confusion. “Vagabonds?”

  “As economic and ecological conditions became more hostile on Earth, more and more people needed to leave. Since the planned resettlement on Genesis had to be delayed due to the Liberty War, people had nowhere to go.”

  “But—the other colony worlds—”

  “Are unable to sustain anything like the number of humans in need of new places to live,” Abel finishes. “Kismet operates as a resort world primarily because opening it up to settlement would soon deplete its resources. Cray can be inhabited by two million people at most. Stronghold can take more, but even so, its population stood at only two hundred million when I last received new data. It will have expanded since then, but nowhere near enough to provide adequate living conditions for the eight billion people still on Earth.” He nods toward the ships. “Unsurprisingly, some humans were already beginning to live their entire lives aboard spacecraft. The name for such people was Vagabonds. From what we see here, I would gather that what had been a fringe subculture is now a significant movement.”

  He expects this to shame her—this proof of humanity’s desperation in the light of Genesis�
��s secession from the colony worlds. Instead her dark eyes widen in what looks almost like confusion. “I thought Earth would try to control them,” she whispers. “That the authorities wouldn’t let just anybody own their own ship. These people go wherever they want. They’re… free.”

  “I wouldn’t know much about freedom,” Abel says to his commander, who’s currently leading him to his destruction. “We should transmit to Wayland Station right away. From the look of things, landing could be delayed if we don’t.”

  Noemi hesitates. Did she pick up on his frustration? If so, why should she care? But she says only, “Go ahead and transmit.”

  He does so, then rises from his station. “Before we receive final landing clearance, I should change clothes.”

  “Why? You look, um, nice.”

  Abel considers this compliment no more than he is due. After all, he changed into garments left behind by Burton Mansfield—black silk jacket and pants, a loose scarlet tunic beneath, all of it so exquisitely woven and tailored that he had no fear of looking strange even if the clothes have gone out of style. But they no longer serve his purpose. “I dressed to suit what I assumed would be our cover story, that of wealthy travelers arriving at a Kismet resort. Our new cover is that we are badly in need of work. Therefore, we should look impoverished, or at least unfashionable.” Abel pauses at the door to study Noemi again. “What you’re wearing is fine.”

  Noemi gets a strange look on her face as he walks out. No doubt she thinks that was mere robotic tactlessness, nothing Abel did intentionally.

  Good.

  Abel may give his service to Noemi. He may give his very life for her cause. His programming offers him no other choice.

  But if she’s determined to use him up and throw him away, he can at least make sure she doesn’t enjoy it.