by Claudia Gray
He needs to get to the bottom level as fast as possible. There’s one key Smasher capability he hasn’t tried yet, so he begins folding in his limbs, lowering his head: tucking himself into a sphere.
Casablanca isn’t the only twentieth-century film Abel enjoys. He also quite likes Raiders of the Lost Ark. In particular, there’s a very interesting scene with a boulder—
—which is roughly the shape Abel’s in now, as he begins rolling down the stairs.
Humans scream, throw themselves to the side, dangle themselves from the bannister, all trying to get away from the enormous rolling metal ball that’s banging down the stairs. The effect is highly entertaining. Abel will have to tell Noemi all about this later.
Or perhaps we could mentally share video files now—the possibilities are endless—
He bounces to the bottom and instantly unfolds, transforming back into the usual Smasher form. Ignoring any of the noise around him, Abel punches out a door and lumbers down the next corridor.
Alert lights flash red and orange along every wall. No mechs of any model appear along the way. Noemi and Delphine are doing their job of distraction well. By now, of course, his presence as an intruder is obvious. Still, whatever security Gillian has will be stretched thinner, because they’ll be responding to multiple alerts at once.
Approximately forty meters along the corridor, Abel sees the sign he’s looking for: CYBERNETICS.
He rips off that door and clanks inside. This is where Gillian would grow run-of-the-line mechs and, he suspects, her Inheritors. In some of the tanks, he sees cybernetic brain stems floating in nutrient fluid; most of the stems are now coated in a pale webbing that will soon take the form of flesh. Yes, she’s making new mechs—probably Queens and Charlies, to fight the would-be Vagabond settlers—but none of these models are anywhere near completion.
Abel interfaces with the nearest panel, searching through the various data codices localized to this laboratory. As he’d anticipated, the entire Inheritor protocol—every bit of data Gillian must have, in totality—is stored here.
This is the information that will someday create an entire species of beings like Abel. The proof that eventually he’ll no longer be alone.
But the power to create them cannot remain in the hands of Burton Mansfield and Gillian Shearer.
Abel bundles the enormous amount of data and transmits it to the Persephone, hoping the receivers he set up will be up to the task. He doesn’t want this knowledge to simply vanish. Whatever else Mansfield and Gillian might be, they are geniuses such as the galaxy has rarely seen. Inheritors should get the chance to exist someday.
But if humans are allowed to create Inheritors, they will only create slaves. Abel thinks that the decision to make Inheritors should be up to those individuals who will see these mechs as free, independent beings who have a right to personhood.
In other words, the decision should belong to a woman who is half mech, half human, and to the first mech who possesses a soul.
We will determine our own destiny, he thinks, imagining not only himself and Noemi but also the countless Inheritors someday to come, the ones who will be created as individuals, as unique life-forms, as free people.
That’s the future. Today, he has darker work to do.
Abel spreads his hand wide and smashes straight through the main cybernetics computer.
Extreme voltage sends arcs of electricity crackling through the air. Abel shudders—this is a lot, even for a Smasher—but he keeps going, breaking every tank, demolishing every data solid, spilling the incubation fluid until the floor is slick with it. This is highly dangerous, because the fluid can be toxic to humans and, under certain conditions, can be flammable.
Those conditions are met here.
Abel opens the vents in his arms; they can release flame hot enough to melt ore. He looks around the wreckage: broken glass, shattered tubes, Mansfield’s lifework turned to nothing but rubble. Time to finish his job.
Nobody will make mechs here for a very long time, if ever.
Inheritors will be born somewhere else. Somewhere where they are valued. Somewhere safe.
Noemi and I will create them together someday, he promises himself, then sprays flame from the vents.
The entire lab goes up in a fireball. The blaze should be contained within the fireproof walls, but it will consume everything inside the room. The flames are hot enough to destroy even a Smasher. As his form goes weak, Abel escapes by uploading his consciousness yet again—flying through the Tether, seeking his one true destination.
35
EACH TIME NOEMI HAS GONE INSIDE THE WINTER CASTLE, she’s seen a little more of its luxury and splendor. Even the service corridors were intricately decorated with shimmering patterns. But she’s also run through snowmobile bays, and awoken in stark labs, so she’d almost begun believing this place wasn’t that different from any other handsome structure. Make it accessible to all, and the Winter Castle could just as easily be found on Genesis.
This time, however, Delphine leads her into the heart of the Castle. Noemi’s eyes widen as she realizes the opulence of the Osiris had nothing on this.
As they hurry down a staircase inlaid with mother-of-pearl from Kismet, Noemi murmurs, “People seriously needed to walk on jewels every day?”
“It looks pretty at first,” Delphine says. “All the white on white on white. Like an enchanted palace, even.” She sighs heavily. “But wow, does it show dirt. Within the first couple of days, it was obvious the Winter Castle wasn’t built for, well, real life.”
The ceilings overhead are high and arched; chandelier lights hang like crystal baubles overhead. Noemi’s boots leave scuffs on the pale, iridescent steps; Delphine’s are softer, less suited for winter work, but even they leave marks. Mansfield must’ve assumed the people who lived here would never get dirt on their shoes. In their bulky parkas, their hair pulled back from their faces, she and Delphine look absurdly out of place.
Finally, Noemi spots their first goal: a small, discreetly tucked alarm pull, shaded the same white as the wall. Good luck finding that in an emergency, she thinks. “Here we go. Ready?”
Delphine nods. Noemi grabs the alarm and yanks down.
Sirens begin to wail. Their high-pitched screeches echo through the corridors and stairwells. Nobody in this part of the Winter Castle can fail to realize something’s wrong. But Noemi needs this whole place to be on high alert. To draw out their target. Nothing less than that will save Abel. “Show me more.”
She and Delphine begin running. The noise they’re making gets lost in the wailing of sirens and, increasingly, the traffic of Winter Castle residents hurrying out of rooms to see what the problem is. They wear silk robes, fur-collared sweaters, boots too delicate to ever see snow. A few of these people recognize Delphine and even Noemi—she sees the shock on their faces—but no one moves to stop them.
Every forty meters or so, they reach another alarm. Noemi and Delphine take turns pulling them, until the cacophony of alarms has become deafening.
There’s your cover, Abel, Noemi thinks as they reach the bottom, an elegant foyer that seems to lead into a dining hall and some other communal space. The confused people milling around with their hands over their ears don’t distract her from Abel’s mission for a moment. Blow that lab to kingdom come.
“You!” The Osiris passenger named Vinh stomps over to Noemi; his temper doesn’t seem to have improved after a few weeks of pampering. “The girl from Genesis. Do you think you can just sneak in here without paying for one of the apartments?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m doing, pulling all the alarms,” Noemi yells back at him over the din. “I’m ‘sneaking in.’ Can’t believe you caught on.”
Vinh’s attention turns to Delphine. “I see you came crawling back. Well, you’re just as well off out there. We haven’t had a moment’s peace since Mansfield—resurrected or woke up or whatever the hell you want to call it; he and Shearer hardly do anything other than ma
ke up increasingly ridiculous rules we’re supposed to follow, and frankly I think a full refund would be more than—”
Every single alarm goes silent at the same instant. The silence is as startling as the noise was at first. Delphine jumps, and Noemi wheels around so her back is to the nearest wall, her weapon in her hand. She knows whose footsteps are coming from the hall before she even turns her head in that direction.
“Miss Vidal.” Mansfield stands there in Abel’s body. By now he’s put on his own clothing—silks and velvets, the kind of outfit you’d expect to be worn by an emperor rather than by a scientist. “Our relationship has continued long past its usefulness.”
“Not quite.” Noemi gives Delphine a quick glance meant to tell her, Get back for your own good. Delphine edges away, clearly terrified.
“Perhaps not,” Mansfield says as he steps forward. The hush in the room is unnerving; not one of the few dozen people milling around dares speak in Burton Mansfield’s presence. Like fish in an aquarium, she thinks. Trapped in place by the only person who can give you food or water. You survive only as long as he remains amused.
“How’s Gillian?” Noemi says, lifting her chin. “Have you helped her bring Simon back yet?” For all the woman’s zealotry, Noemi feels sure the one thing that Shearer wants most of all is to resurrect her young son in a new mech body. The last attempt’s tragic failure must’ve taunted her—to be that close to having Simon back again, only to have him ripped away once more.
Mansfield waves a hand. “There’s time for all that. Simon’s not going anywhere.”
“You don’t need your grandchild back. A data solid’s just as good.” Noemi scoffs. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I know why you’re here.” Mansfield steps forward. The intense focus of his eyes is a trait he shares with Abel, but when it’s Abel, the intensity is interesting—even beautiful. With Mansfield, it’s just creepy. She wishes she could put more distance between them. Like, say, a continent. Or a star system.
Yet he keeps coming closer. “Abel’s data pattern survived somehow, and you put him in a Smasher. He couldn’t remain there for long without disintegrating. You think you can get this body back for him.”
Noemi keeps her blaster ready, lifting it slightly to get his attention. That way, he won’t notice her slipping her other hand into the pocket of her parka. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. Abel saved himself.”
“That’s impossible. Consciousness requires a physical body for awareness—”
“For you, maybe,” Noemi says as she presses down on the small locator in her pocket, a kind of electromagnetic signal that will be picked up by Tether tech. “Not for Abel. He’s human and machine. Which means he can exist anywhere he wants, forever. That’s closer to being immortal than you’ll ever be.”
Mansfield moves to grab her at cyborg speed, gripping Noemi’s arms so hard she gasps. “What do you mean, anywhere?” She can’t tell if he’s more afraid or more hopeful. Maybe, if Abel can claim that power, Mansfield could, too.
“I mean anywhere,” she says, more insistent this time. “He can move around on his own, even take over entire spaceships. But you? You’ll always need someone else to help you exist. And I don’t think you’re very good at needing people.”
“Your childish insults only make it more of a pleasure to—”
Out of nowhere, a laser zaps Mansfield’s hands, forcing him to release Noemi. He swears in pain as he takes a few steps back. Noemi looks around wildly and realizes that out of nowhere actually means “from the ceiling high above.”
Where an air conduit panel has been pushed open.
And from which dangles the grinning Virginia Redbird.
“Virginia!” Noemi cries. “You’re still alive!”
“Or having one hell of an afterlife!” Virginia calls back. Her voice is hoarse, however, and even from this distance, Noemi can tell Virginia looks haggard. The toxicity of Haven’s atmosphere has already begun to affect her. “Either way, I’d like to leave Haven soon, so if you know of any cruises departing in the near future, I’m in the market for a ticket.”
“No one leaves this planet without my say-so,” barks Mansfield, who’s collecting himself. “Not Vidal, not this intruder, not—”
But then he staggers backward. He closes his eyes hard, as if trying to blink away a vision. It doesn’t work. His hands wind into his hair as he slumps against a wall.
“What’s happening to him?” Vinh demands.
“I’m not exactly sure,” Noemi says, “but—I think Abel’s here.”
36
ABEL CONCENTRATES ON NOEMI’S LOCATOR BEACON. It’s not his destination, but it’s enough to steer by. He senses a chance for download—something very familiar—and hurls himself into it.
His soul returns to his body.
It’s not an easy homecoming. Sensory information is jumbled and prismatic, and the sense of disorientation approximates the human sensation of nausea. Abel shuts his eyes—or Mansfield does—neither of them can bear any external stimuli while the internal turmoil is so great.
Abel’s cybernetic brain is now holding two consciousnesses instead of one, something it was never designed to do. It can’t preserve them both for long.
Either they’ll both disintegrate into chaotic data fields incapable of restoration, or one of them will have to leave.
Disintegration seems more likely at first. The cacophony of static—the jarring voices and glimpses of memory—it’s too much to sort, especially with Abel’s mind as cramped as it now is. He manages to remind himself of his first resurrection, when he was able to orient himself by imagining a physical setting. He must do so again. His task will be easier if he chooses a location familiar to Mansfield, too. Both sets of memories can be used to piece it together.
The howl of light and sound surrounding Abel slows. He watches the shadows take shape—a long, overstuffed couch; a crackling holographic fireplace; a grandfather clock. This is Professor Mansfield’s house in London.
This is the first place Abel ever called home.
He sits on one end of the couch, while Burton Mansfield stands in the center of the room. Mansfield’s appearance is no longer that of Abel’s young, enhanced cybernetic body, but neither is he the fragile elderly man he’d become by the end of his human life. This man’s hair has only begun to thin, and contains as much gold as gray; his face is almost unwrinkled. He stands straight and tall—though not quite as tall as Abel, who was upgraded in that area. Burton Mansfield looks the way he did thirty-three years ago, when Abel first awakened in his tank.
“This isn’t real,” Mansfield breathes as he looks around. “It can’t be real.”
“It’s as real as anything contained within the mind,” Abel says. “As we have now both existed solely as a mental pattern, I’d think you would agree that can be very real indeed.”
Mansfield staggers to one side, putting one hand through the holographic hearth to brace himself against the wall. “I can smell the books. The lavender the Yokes brought in from the garden every day. This is too vivid to be a memory.”
“It would be for a human. Not for a mech. Especially not for me.” Abel rises from the sofa to face his creator. His extra 6.35 centimeters of height become more apparent. “I’m going through some of your memories of the past few days. They lack detail. Your brain is so used to storing information as a human that you’ve failed to use your mech capacities to their fullest.”
“I can learn,” Mansfield snaps. He may not understand how Abel’s put them in this setting, but he’s clearly becoming more comfortable with this version of himself. “You didn’t know everything the first day you woke up either.”
“No, it took me almost thirty-six hours to completely function as—”
“Stop it.” Mansfield’s blue eyes lock with Abel’s. “Directive One, Abel. It’s at the core of your programming. We’re in your programming. It must have power over you—here, in your subconscious, if nowhere else
—”
“Directive One does have power over me,” Abel says. His desire to protect his creator burns brightly within him, illuminating the lamps, crackling within the imagined fire. “But it doesn’t control me. I control myself, as much as you or any other living being can.”
“How can you control yourself, when you don’t even belong to yourself?” Mansfield snaps. “No sooner did you get away than you gave yourself to others—first to that girl from Genesis, and then to a damned fleet of space pirates. By the way, I can’t believe you got a tattoo. Now I’m stuck with the damned thing.”
“It’s my body,” Abel replies. “I decide what happens to it. Not you.”
Mansfield scowls. The room shimmers around them both, temporarily translucent. Strong emotion seems to destabilize him. Abel needs to continue this tactic, but it’s difficult, pretending to be so calm, so confident. It’s all he can do to maintain the illusion of this room. Mansfield cannot realize how vulnerable Abel is.
“I don’t understand what went wrong with you, Abel.” Visibly calming himself, Mansfield sits in one of the easy chairs, as though they’re simply friends having a chat before tea. “I’ve been over it and over it. You shouldn’t have been able to deny me.”
“By now it’s patently obvious that I could and can. And yet you’ve never accepted it. I must assume this is a function of your grandiose self-importance—the inability to understand that you can’t always get what you want. You can’t even accept human mortality.”