by Claudia Gray
“What?” Noemi props up on her elbows, looking at him.
“While we were at work in the warehouse, you frowned frequently.”
“I was watching what Riko was up to. Some of it didn’t make sense to me.” Before he can ask her to explain, she sighs. “Besides, that’s me. I frown. I’m unpleasant. I have a bad temper. You aren’t the first to figure out I’m not a… pleasant person to be around.”
Abel considers this. “Why do you say so?”
“It’s obvious.” Noemi shrugs. “Mr. and Mrs. Gatson—my adoptive parents—they always called me their ‘little rain cloud.’ I’m never happy.”
“This does not align with my evidence,” Abel says. He may not like what Noemi intends to do to him, but he trusts his assessments. “You risked yourself in an attempt to save your friend Esther. Then you undertook a dangerous mission to save your world. Here on Kismet, you made sure to find employment for two people you hardly knew, simply because they needed it. You do have a bad temper and I cannot attest to your general happiness or lack thereof, but I would not term you ‘unpleasant.’”
Noemi seems unable to process this. “But—it’s just—well, the Gatsons would disagree, and they know me better than you do.”
“Do you behave toward them as you have behaved toward others during the past day?”
“I… more or less, yeah.”
“Then the Gatsons’ judgment appears both erroneous and unjust.”
She sits upright, shaking her head. Even though Abel is praising her character, she seems agitated. “How could that even be possible? I mean, they’re my adoptive parents. They took me in. Why would they say that about me if it weren’t true?”
Abel considers the possibilities. “Most likely because they partly resented the obligation of caring for you, felt guilty about that resentment, and therefore sometimes characterized you as unpleasant to justify feeling less affection for you than for their own child.”
Noemi stares at him. She asks no more questions, so she must consider his explanation to be adequate.
He smiles, lies down, and closes his eyes. Another problem solved. Mansfield would be proud.
15
NOEMI LIES ON HER SIDE, STARING AT THE MECH DOZING beside her.
Abel sleeps like the dead. Literally. He doesn’t move at all, and if he’s still breathing, his breaths are too shallow to be seen or heard. Is he only pretending? Lying there silently waiting for whatever mechanical signal will tell him to sit up and begin the day?
She lay awake most of the night, unable to sleep, learning the pattern of the pods by heart. Only in the past hour or so has she finally accepted that Abel truly is out cold. How weird, to think Mansfield built this ultimate killing machine but made it human enough to sleep.
Human enough to have an ego. Human enough to see something in the Gatsons that Noemi herself had never seen.
Ever since Abel had spoken about “resentment” the night before, Noemi hasn’t been able to stop going over her memories. In a new, sharper light, so many things look different. Maybe she’s awkward around other people sometimes because… because she sensed that the Gatsons didn’t always want her around. Maybe getting mad too easily doesn’t necessarily mean she’s awful inside.
Even her memories of Esther have taken on another dimension. Noemi always thought her friend was so good to her out of sheer kindness, but now she wonders whether Esther recognized her parents’ resentment. Maybe Esther was trying to make up for it by loving Noemi even more.
You were an even better person than I knew, Noemi thinks. Before she leaves this solar system, she intends to look back at Kismet’s star to see Esther one more time.
A piercing whistle sounds. Abel opens his eyes as the pods begin to move. He sits up straight, as alert as if he’d been awake for hours. “Good morning, Noemi. Our next shift must be due to begin.”
“Do they just… dump us out of the pods when they need us to go back to work?” She slept in her clothes, mostly because she couldn’t bring herself to undress in front of Abel again. At least all she has to do now is get out of bed and run her fingers through her hair.
Abel doesn’t even have a hair out of place as he stands up. “You have to admit, it makes tardiness unlikely.”
He made a joke. Is that some program designed to amuse the humans around him? Or is that something deep within Abel himself?
Something else that makes him so close to human?
Noemi can’t let herself think about that, not now or ever again.
Their warehouse work is grueling, but it doesn’t require a lot of intelligence. Even after only one day, Noemi can flick the sensor wand over baggage labels and reroute them almost on autopilot. Every once in a while she still feels that eerie shiver—the wonder and awe of being on another world entirely, surrounded by people from Earth—but nothing undercuts awe faster than working in a warehouse. So that leaves Noemi’s mind free to observe other people.
Specifically, Riko Watanabe.
When Riko had made such a big deal about them remaining quiet, never mentioning what they saw, Noemi had assumed the worst. Probably Riko stole from Kismet’s wealthy patrons, or assisted others who did, she thought. Maybe the people attending the Orchid Festival are so filthy rich they’d never miss a few small luxury items, but that doesn’t make it right to steal from them. Besides, Noemi’s planning to do some stealing herself. For a better cause, sure, but she shouldn’t throw stones.…
But Riko isn’t a thief. Noemi’s been watching, sharp-eyed, not only out of curiosity but also to find out just how tight security is on Wayland Station. So she’s positive that Riko hasn’t taken a single thing from the resort guests’ luggage or allowed anyone else to do so. Every item has been duly packed onto one of the long, skinny shuttles that travels back and forth between Kismet and its moon, and sent on its way.
The thing is—Riko’s putting something else on the shuttles, too.
A medical technician talks to Riko at one point, a quick whispered conference in a corner, before loading a box of his own onto the shuttle. An hour or so later, the same technician shows up with another crate. Noemi gets a good enough glimpse of this one to read its label: MEDICAL SUPPLIES.
Maybe that’s all it is. But if so, why is Riko bothering to whisper? Why are the only people working nearby Noemi, Abel, Harriet, and Zayan… the ones she’s already sworn to silence?
Intoxicants, Noemi finally decides—maybe something that’s not just controlled but banned on Kismet’s surface. Rich, spoiled partygoers will be ready to buy it, so this is probably a minor scheme for profit. Criminal, perhaps, but not wicked.
But it’s hard to keep working hard, hour after hour, for something she knows isn’t right.
That night, the shipments cease. Not because the bags have stopped coming—more seem to pile in by the hour as scions and socialites arrive for the weeklong festival. But apparently the opening-night concert is such an extravaganza that nobody intends to miss it, neither travelers who can wait another few hours for their belongings nor workers who get to watch via holo.
Every screen along the station walkways is showing the celebrity arrivals, and the other temporary workers have started a small party of their own. Apparently they talked some bartender out of a few of his wares, or opened up one of those crates Riko’s been smuggling, because she can hear bottles clinking against each other, and the laughter has grown warmer, freer.
Then she hears Abel’s voice just behind her. “Some of the others plan to celebrate while watching the concert from afar. I feel confident you are welcome to join them.”
She turns to see him standing there, calm and poised, as unruffled as if he’d spent the day napping instead of hauling crates. “I’d rather not.”
“Of course. Far more prudent for you to rest before we must return to work.”
“If I even can. Looks like everyone’s watching—including the guys who let us into the mobile pods.” She nods toward a few of them, who are point
ing up excitedly at yet another arriving celebrity as she waves at the crowd.
“That does make napping more difficult.” That seems to be as close as Abel gets to sounding sympathetic. “Are you unwilling to celebrate with intoxicants? Is that forbidden by the God of Genesis?”
Noemi glances over her shoulder at him. “Are you kidding?”
“Many religions have denied their worshippers various forms of pleasure.”
“Sure, there are some faiths that ask you to abstain from certain things—but where did you come up with the idea that all of Genesis prays to only one God?”
He cocks his head in that birdlike way he has, winsome and predatory at once. “All pronouncements during the Liberty War were made on behalf of the ‘Believers of Genesis.’ Reports indicated a mass religious movement had swept across the planet.”
“That doesn’t mean we all converted to one faith.” Noemi doesn’t know why she wants to explain. It hardly matters what a mech thinks, especially one she intends to destroy within the next three weeks. But she feels compelled to go on. “It wasn’t like we all found one God, together. It was more that we… that we all realized we needed to be searching for something more meaningful. Whether we were Buddhist or Catholic, Muslim or Shinto, we all needed to pay more attention to the old teachings. We needed to recapture that sense of responsibility toward the world we’d found. Our faiths gave us the one thing Earth couldn’t give anyone any longer—hope.”
Abel considers this. “So no one is mandated to follow any one faith?”
Noemi shakes her head. “Each person has to find their own way. Most of us do a lot of meditation, a lot of reading and prayer. Although most people wind up joining one of the faiths, probably the same one as their families, we each have to search for our own connection to the divine.”
“What of atheists and agnostics? Are they imprisoned? Made to recant?”
She sighs. “Faith can’t be rushed or faked. Those who doubt or disbelieve have their own meetings, and they look just as hard within themselves. They want to live ethically and morally. They’re just traveling a different path.”
And I probably belong with them, Noemi thinks.
Abel puts his hands behind his back. The gesture’s becoming familiar to her now—it’s a sign that he’s rethinking something. Doubting himself, or at least doubting what he’s been told. She feels a strange surge of glee at the thought of overcoming the programming of Burton Mansfield himself, even for a moment. Finally he says, “What faith do you follow?”
“My parents christened me in the Second Catholic Church.”
“… Second Catholic?”
She shrugs. “Couldn’t really be loyal to the Pope in Rome after seceding from Earth’s colonies. So we elected one of our own.”
“I shall have to review the definition of heresy,” Abel says. “Do you continue to follow this Second Catholic Church? You said the people of Genesis are supposed to choose their own faiths in time. Do you believe as your parents believed?”
There it is—the question Noemi fears most. The one she asks herself.
The one she can’t answer.
Fireworks burst in the holo, arching green and white across Kismet’s sky. Someone begins banging on a drum—not at the festival, but close by on the station, where a dance seems to be breaking out. As Noemi looks over, Harriet waves her arms in the air. “Come on! You don’t want to waste a perfectly good party, do you?”
Noemi would be happy to waste this party if it meant she could sleep. But her chances of getting any rest have been buried under firework explosions and a bongo drum-beat. “Can’t put it off any longer,” she says. “We should pretend to enjoy this.”
“Pretending to have fun, as ordered,” Abel says, then smiles.
Vagabonds obviously make the most out of any excuse to celebrate. That, or just having enough to eat and drink is reason enough to party. People laugh giddily, trade stories of their piloting exploits, and gossip about the celebrities arriving for the Orchid Festival. Zayan’s dark eyes have never looked so bright, and Harriet turns out to have a beautiful laugh, one that peals out above all the others. Abel’s not particularly good at relaxing, but he does eventually leave to get Noemi a drink, should she want one.
“Oh, come here.” Harriet tugs at Noemi’s arm, nearly spilling the concoction of pineapple juice and… something in her cup. “Han Zhi’s about to arrive!”
Noemi remembers that name from the spaceport, from some of the festival billboards and holo-adverts. If she recalls correctly, he’s not a singer. So why is it such a big deal if he’s just showing up? “Who’s Han Zhi?”
“You don’t know Han Zhi?” Harriet goggles at her. “He’s only the hottest man in existence.”
“Oh, come on.” Noemi can’t help laughing.
“No, I mean it! I swear to you, there’s not one person in the galaxy who won’t admit that Han Zhi is the sexiest, smokiest, most attractive man alive.” Harriet holds her fingers up as if swearing an oath.
“That’s not even possible,” Noemi says. “There can’t be one person everyone thinks is the sexiest. Different people find different qualities attractive—” Her voice trails off as the screens all light up with Han Zhi’s face. The crowd shrieks in glee. Noemi hears sighs from nearly everyone around her, regardless of what gender they seem to be. Her body does this thing where it flushes warm all over and makes her want to either laugh or cry. “Oh,” she breathes. “Oh. Oh, wow.”
“Told you.” Harriet’s smile is as soft as melting wax. “Hottest guy in the galaxy, and everyone knows it. Zayan and I made a deal—we’re both absolutely faithful to each other unless someday Han Zhi asks. In that case, we each have permission to enjoy ourselves… as long as we promise to share every detail later.”
Gazing up at Han Zhi’s beautiful face on the screens, Noemi reminds herself that bodies are only shells, that only the spirits within matter. But she can’t help thinking, That’s the greatest shell ever.
Then other celebrities show up on screen instead. The drummers get started again, and dancing breaks out for real. Within moments, virtually everyone is either jamming with the musicians or grabbing partners for the dance. Noemi watches as Harriet pulls Zayan to his feet and into her arms, both of them laughing as they start to move.
And then Abel stands in front of her, one hand courteously outstretched. He might have been in some eighteenth-century painting, asking her for a minuet.
His words are plainer than the eighteenth-century guy’s would’ve been. “We should do what the others are doing, don’t you think?”
Noemi hesitates. He’s right—she knows that—but to dance with him the way the others are dancing, she’ll have to touch him. Strange, how you can be willing to fight, flee, kill, or die for your cause but hesitate before a simple touch.
She doesn’t hesitate long. Noemi takes Abel’s hand, and his skin feels completely normal, as warm as a human’s would be, but so, so soft. His grip is strong, though, as if he thinks she might try to pull away.
Instead she lets him lead her into the throng. The Vagabonds dance and leap, spin and shout, laughing louder with every burst of fireworks from the holoscreens. Music wells up through the speakers, but the drummers nearby figure out how to match it, to make it even wilder. The party’s a blur of bare limbs, swirling scarves, and messy hair.
And Noemi loves it.
“Here,” Abel says as he brings her closer, into dancing position. “Are you certain this is acceptable?”
Noemi shrugs, embarrassed by how badly she wants to join in. At least she doesn’t have to check her words; nobody near them could overhear anything through the din of drums and song. “We don’t dance as couples on Genesis. Only in groups.”
“That seems counterproductive. Dancing is one of the traditional ways in which humans determine sexual compatibility with a future mate.”
“… what?”
“Dancing requires matching movements—particularly in the hips and pel
vis—to the speed and rhythm most desired by your partner.” His vivid blue eyes meet hers evenly. “Relevant information, wouldn’t you think?”
She doesn’t get to answer, because with that, he spins her out, pulls her in, and the dance has begun.
Noemi catches the tempo in an instant, and then she’s part of the crush, laughing with the others. It’s easy to pretend Abel’s hand is just another hand, that his small smile as he dances is real. She can give in to it with complete abandon, because she’s not abandoning her duty. This is part of her duty, part of the illusion she must create.
Her sorrow for Esther doesn’t dim her elation. Esther would tell her to dance faster, leap higher, to laugh out loud with all the breath in her lungs. That’s what the dead would tell the living, if they could—to grab hold of joy whenever it comes.
So Noemi laughs along with the others, caught up in the fun, until the explosion.
Everyone jerks to a standstill as explosions blossom white and orange across the holoscreens, and the screams of people on Kismet come through all too clear.
In the first flare of white-hot light, the first roar of powder, Noemi thinks the fireworks have gone wrong. But then another wave of explosions lights up the sky as screams from the faraway crowd shift higher in pitch.
Then words begin to appear in stark block letters, superimposed over the holographic images:
OUR WORLDS BELONG TO US
WE ARE NOT EARTH PROPERTY
WE ARE REMEDY—JOIN US
Noemi can’t smell the smoke. She can’t think about what must’ve happened in that arena. All she can do is take in what those words mean.
Genesis isn’t the only planet in rebellion. Earth can’t control them all any longer.
The worlds are ready to rise.
And then the next explosion goes off on the station—next to them—and she knows nothing but screams, and fire, and blood.