by Claudia Gray
She knows only one thing for sure: Her mech parts aren’t making her better any longer.
Instead, they’re making her sick.
22
ABEL HAD JOINED THE KRALL CONSORTIUM PRIMARILY to gain allies amid a galaxy in turmoil. The Liberty War—for so long confined to the Genesis system—now threatened to break out and encompass all the worlds of the Loop. It would be difficult for any ship with no home planet to make its way through such a war; it would be even more difficult for one with a fugitive for a captain. He’d anticipated that having allies in the trade would give him protection, and that his own considerable talents would make this an equitable exchange.
He hadn’t anticipated that the Consortium would immediately pull him into military action.
“Only sort of military,” says Anjuli Patil via comms, in the preliminary briefing. “We probably won’t see any combat.”
“By a slim margin,” Abel replies. “Specifically, there is a forty-seven point forty-eight percent chance of battle breaking out.”
Anjuli’s eyes widen. “That high, huh?” But she smiles bravely. “The point is, there’s a half-completed Gate in the Kismet system. If Earth retains control of that Gate, they retain control of the world on the other side. We can’t allow that to happen.”
The long-term military strategy is sound. In the shorter term, Abel would consider it wiser to wait for this kind of action until Earth’s dealing with conflict elsewhere—in other words, after some of the patrol ships in this area of the Kismet system had moved away.
But he may be overcautious. If they were to wait for another clash as major as the Battle of Genesis, they might be waiting a long time. The closer the Gate gets to completion, the more intense Earth’s hold on the Kismet system will become.
“Very well,” Abel says. “Send the necessary information, and the Persephone will be ready.”
“Of course,” Anjuli replies. Her pleasant tone is sincere, and yet within it Abel can hear a slight hesitation.
He knows why. It’s because he just acted as though he had the right to refuse Krall’s instructions.
Now that he’s a member of the Consortium, he doesn’t.
At Krall’s signal, the Consortium moves in.
The Vagabond vessels crowd the perimeter of this irregular, seemingly empty corner of space, their running lights shining like the stars of new constellations. More than one hundred ships are coasting in, from freighters to little skimmers, each vibrantly painted with patterns he recognizes from the art of various cultures: Maori, Navajo, Celtic. Abel’s photographic memory informs him that dozens of these ships weren’t present at the Battle of Genesis. Their crews must be later converts to the fight.
The uprising is getting larger, he thinks. More and more people are joining the fight.
Noemi would be so happy to know that—
Briefly, Abel closes his eyes, pushing aside the pain. He reminds himself that she will know, someday. It doesn’t matter that he won’t be the one to tell her.
When he opens his eyes again, he glimpses a flicker of movement at the most distant edge of his ship’s sensors. Opening a channel throughout the Consortium fleet, he says, “We have smaller vessels deploying. Probable warrior mech presence.”
“Steady on, people.” Krall’s voice comes through the comms firm and strong. “Shielded vessels, take point.”
The Persephone is only here to add to the intimidating size of the Consortium fleet. His ship doesn’t have battle shielding; it doesn’t even have real weapons. Abel’s always made it through combat via a combination of speed, strategy, and occasional use of lasers and comm signals—which aren’t capable of damaging an enemy as much as of confusing it to the point of damaging itself.
In this conflict, the strategy isn’t his to determine. Speed is something he can use only at Krall’s request. He’s been given a relatively safe position in the rear center of the fleet, but if the battle turns bad for the Consortium, even this good position won’t protect him.
Besides, hiding from the fight seems… indecent.
(This can only be Noemi’s influence.)
Abel continues scans as skirmishes begin on the edge of the fleet. Blaster bolts and weapons fire illuminate the black borders of open space. The entire bulk of the Consortium ships continue moving toward the center of this contested area of space—at which lies the half-completed Gate to a world unknown. They must secure that Gate, but that means they have to concentrate their forces into a single mass. But the Queens and Charlies that he can now see firing at the outermost ships—speeding in dangerous, irregular arcs like stinging wasps—they’re free to protect themselves. Or to attack the vulnerable. To do anything their deadly programming suggests.
He reasons, We must use their strategy against them.
Abel accesses the thousands of forms of military strategy stored in his memory banks and chooses one of the simplest, and one of the most effective: the feint.
He opens a private channel to the Katara. “I think I can draw many of them away from our fleet,” he says as he steps to the ops panel and starts working. “Earth’s military has become much too dependent on warrior mechs in recent decades. Deprive them of their Queens and Charlies, and they’ll retreat.”
“We’re trying to deprive them!” replies Anjuli via comms. “By shooting the damned things!”
Abel wants to say the warrior mechs are too numerous and too quick for that, but the battle is proving that point for him. “I’m about to release a probe,” he says instead. “Inform our ships to ignore that probe and any signals it sends. The rest should take care of itself. Persephone out.”
With that, he turns his full attention to the probe.
This is no longer an accurate name for it. Once it was an ejectable sensor probe for Mansfield’s research; Abel has since retrofitted it as an escape pod—the same one he offered Virginia Redbird, if she hadn’t agreed to leave the ship for Cray.
Retrofitting the pod meant removing almost all its sensors, but some remain. Signals can be sent from within it, programmed remotely. So he programs it to send out the same type of scrambling signals he used to confuse the mechs at the minefield. This time, however, the scrambling isn’t random. Abel gives it a focal point—a direction.
A direction the warrior mechs must follow.
In his determination to create the most advanced mech of all time, Mansfield gave Abel at least part of the programming of each of the other twenty-five models of mech in existence, from the culinary knowledge of a Baker to the childcare technique of a Nan. Some models’ programming were installed in their entirety—including those for warrior mechs.
He knows their abilities. Knows their strategies. And knows exactly which kind of signal they’ll interpret as a top-priority pursuit. Abel can imagine what Virginia Redbird would say about this: You’re basically putting up a huge neon sign that reads “Chase me, losers!”
“Exactly,” he murmurs to himself, then launches the pod.
The silver streak of the pod vanishes into the blackness of space on his viewscreen, just one flash among hundreds in the battle that’s begun. Normally Abel would switch to more schematic sensor readings, but not this time. If this plan works, the proof will be visible shortly.
Soon he picks up a small wave of mechs flying toward one area at the very edge of the fight. Then another wave. He allows himself to smile as more and more mechs change their normal attack patterns to fly in pursuit of the pod. Their gleaming exosuits form burnished arrows against the darkness of space.
Over comms, Dagmar Krall says, “Abel, you’re even handier than I thought you’d be.”
“It’s my nature.” He feels justifiably proud, but apparently humans enjoy the pretense of humility. Abel’s learning how to oblige them. It feels so unnatural, though. “The minute the Queens and Charlies are fully centralized around the pod, we should concentrate all fire.”
“Already on it.”
Within another 2 minutes, 49.1 seco
nds, every single warrior mech in the Earth fleet has congregated around the pod. The Earth ships are frantically sending signals, trying to get the mechs back into formation, but they can’t counteract what Abel’s just sent out.
At least, they can’t do it in time.
Space lights up with weapons fire, and the explosions of mech after mech. Even before the Queens and Charlies are completely destroyed, the Earth fleet has begun to scatter; within minutes, they’ve vacated this area of space entirely. They’re going to the only place reinforcements could come from—in other words, they’re fleeing for the Cray Gate.
Which means this new Gate—the one that may someday lead to yet another home for humanity—belongs to the Consortium. To the people.
Noemi would be proud.
Once their presence around the Unknown Gate has been established, Dagmar Krall begins granting shore leaves. Kismet is apparently delighted at its liberation from Earth control; its planetary leaders have invited any and all Consortium members to make planetfall, to enjoy the famous beauty and luxury of this world. While many ships will, of course, have to remain in place to guard the Gate, Krall apparently sees no need to deny the others the spoils of victory.
Her announcement is met with yet more flashing-light “applause.” For all their embrace of the spacefaring life, most Vagabonds love to put their feet on solid ground for a change. To smell fresh air. To have a true sky overhead instead of outer space.
The Persephone is included in the very first group of those cleared to visit Kismet. Probably it’s meant as a reward for Abel’s clever thinking during the battle. He needs no reward for that, and briefly considers giving up his leave to some other Vagabond ship, which might appreciate it more.
But he and Noemi never made planetfall on Kismet. It’s the one world in the galaxy that isn’t haunted by the ghosts of happier times, when they were together, facing every challenge, discovering each other.
Maybe, on Kismet, he’ll miss her less. So he joins the first wave of travelers down to the surface.
Kismet is always described as dazzling: a waterworld with lilac oceans and lavender skies. Only 10 percent of its surface is land, made up entirely of tropical islands with white sand and soft winds. This makes the planet perfect for human habitation… in the short term.
But there’s not enough landmass to house a huge population, much less grow the food to feed them. Kismet farms its seas, but anywhere beyond the narrow band of the tropics, those seas are inhabited by large, highly dangerous shark- and squid-like creatures. These alien creatures have proven themselves willing to devour human crops of the native kelp—or, on occasion, to eat the humans themselves. So there’s a limit to how many people can live on the planet before overcrowding and food shortages set in.
Instead of responsibly peopling Kismet with a small, hardy group of settlers, Earth turned the planet into a kind of resort. Those rich and powerful enough could escape Earth’s stagnant air for days, weeks, or months on the beach. Only a few thousand people have ever lived there full-time, and they were there to provide cocktails, massages, and hotel services for the wealthy guests.
Until now.
Abel steps out from the central spaceport of Isla de Fortuna, blinks, then minimizes his light intake by 30 percent. Pearlescent white sand shifts softly beneath his boots as he takes in the scene: Stretching along the beach is a long, palatial resort—or what was one, and is now a kind of central bartering market. The permanent inhabitants of Kismet once wore sarongs and shifts with various corporate logos on them, but now they dress more like Vagabonds, and trade like them, too. Booths exchange fruit for fish, fish for cloth, cloth for solar chargers, and so on. It’s noisy and chaotic, but almost every person is grinning.
One’s own mayhem is always better than anyone else’s order, he thinks.
Most of the Vagabonds head straight for one of the fruit kiosks—in deep space, citrus is a rare luxury. Abel’s more interested in a gathering closer to the seashore, where people are animatedly discussing a word he thinks he’d pick up on even without superhuman hearing: Haven.
“Come on,” argues a woman wearing long black robes. “It can’t be true. Who ever heard of a planet you can’t live on unless you’ve had a disease first?”
“That’s the whole reason the Cobweb virus exists,” insists a man with a heavy French accent. “They were trying to make us ready to live on Haven. Making us sick the way it does—that’s just the side effect.”
A deep voice from the back says, “Four years ago my husband died of that ‘side effect.’ Mind how you talk about it.”
The Frenchman holds out his hand. “Forgive me, my friend. I don’t mean to make light of the subject. I only meant that we can’t set foot on Haven without knowing that it’s safe first. Rumors have it that the Vagabond settlers there are already dying by the thousands.”
Abel thinks of the havoc he saw on Haven. It saved his life, but by now humans are dying for no worse crime than wanting a home. Noemi warned them, but desperate people are never good at hearing what they don’t want to hear.
“You’re afraid of shadows and lies,” insists the woman in black. “The so-called epidemic is just a cover-up, the story Earth tells to keep us from Haven.”
“It isn’t,” Abel says. The entire group turns to stare at him. Although he’s a stranger, they must recognize the absolute certainty in his voice. “I’ve been to Haven already—it was safe for me. But I took readings of the atmosphere while I was there. Toxicity levels will kill the average human within days. Only the genetic change worked by Cobweb makes survival possible.”
The woman in black folds her arms. “How can this be true? If you were safe on Haven, you’d have stayed there!”
No point in getting into why he should never again set foot on Haven. Instead, he slightly reshapes the truth: “My companion badly needed medical treatment.” A few nods follow; they approve of his prioritizing Noemi’s health over his own comfort. Harriet and Zayan told him that, to Vagabonds, the most important virtue is loyalty.
The Frenchman asks, “Then what are we to do? Wait to get Cobweb, and hope we don’t die?”
“Haven’s original settlers were exposed to a weakened version of the virus—one that changed their bodies without making them as seriously ill.” Abel considers the ramifications. “While there may not be a large store of that material on the planet at this time, both Haven and Earth must have the basic knowledge of the medical protocol. What you should do is negotiate for the raw information and materials to be distributed throughout the galaxy.”
After a brief pause, the deep-voiced man says, “That’s what the fight would be for, then. Not Haven, but the ability to live there.”
It strikes Abel how different the future will be from anything that has ever been before. The newness and strangeness of it all is dizzying—and, in its own way, glorious.
Then he notices that one of the men in the surrounding crowd, one with a long mustache and a green cloak, is staring at him. His stare is intense and, if Abel’s assessing human emotion correctly, hostile.
Abel’s first thought is that he’s been identified as a mech. But that makes no sense. He is mostly unknown to the galaxy at large.
But one planet’s entire population has heard of him—and blames him for murder.
Genesis has been sending operatives out into the various systems of the Loop, Abel recalls. That would include Kismet. And any information packets such operatives have received from Genesis could well include an image of one of their world’s most wanted criminals.
Me.
Perhaps this man isn’t from Genesis, but the possibility cannot be ignored. Amid the various chatter of the group, he steps casually to the edge of it, then strolls away in the direction of the spaceport.
Abel doesn’t glance back until he’s stepping inside the Persephone. When he does, he sees he’s been followed. The man with the long mustache stands in the far passageway, speaking into a comm unit.
&n
bsp; The casual protocol serves no more purpose. Abel runs inside, sets the ship to prepare for takeoff, and begins strategizing. Get back to the Consortium blockade around the Unknown Gate. They’ll provide cover and protection.
This is why Abel joined the Consortium in the first place. Space presents too many dangers to be faced alone. Allies are necessary. Flying out of Kismet atmosphere, back to the depths of space, feels like going home.
When he rejoins the Vagabond fleet, Abel considers the crisis passed—until the moment a tractor beam locks on to his ship, holding it fast.
A beam from the Katara.
“Persephone to Katara,” Abel says into comms. “Is there a particular reason you’ve locked me into position?”
He hopes against hope that there’s some other reason—repairs, maybe. Anything other than what he fears.
But then Krall’s voice comes over the speaker, slow and sad. “I’m genuinely sorry about this, Abel. You’d have been a fine member of the Consortium. Even in the past few days, you’ve proved your worth.”
“But I’m worth more as a bounty for Genesis,” he says dryly.
“This isn’t about money,” Krall insists. “This is about our alliance. We didn’t join forces with Genesis because it was right or just. We did it so my people could have a world to live on. So they’d have homes. That means preserving the alliance is my top priority. When Genesis says they need a wanted criminal turned over to them—then that’s what we have to do.”
Abel says, “I understand.” And he does. Dagmar Krall has made the only moral choice she could.
But that doesn’t make it any easier when the power over his ship is transferred over to the smaller craft from Genesis. Abel can take no comfort from returning to Noemi’s world—not even when it offers the chance of seeing her one last time. Not when he’s being dragged back for his trial for murder.