by Claudia Gray
But it will always be Mr. and Mrs. Gatson, never uncle and aunt, never any nicknames that would acknowledge they’ve spent as much time raising Noemi as her late parents did. They will never light up at the sight of her returning home. They’ll never hug her good-bye.
Mr. Gatson rubs his forehead. “Do we have any ginger tea?”
“I think we’re out, but I could go to the store for some,” Noemi offers. Until she receives her new assignment from Captain Baz, it’s not like she has anyplace more important to be.
“That would be good,” Mrs. Gatson says. That’s about as close as she gets to thank you. There is an unspoken sense from the Gatsons that their foster daughter owes them courtesy and help—it’s the way she earns her keep.
Halfway to the neighborhood market, Noemi begins to realize fewer people than usual are walking along the paths, and only one or two cyclists zip by. Not as many children are playing outdoors. None of this is remarkable, but the quiet that surrounds her makes her feel cut off from the world.
In the market, she finds her way to the tea stall only to learn they’re out of ginger, as well as chamomile and peppermint—all the ones she’d turn to first for someone sick. As she takes up a packet of elderflower tea, a shopper nearby staggers to one side, then sits on the wooden floor heavily, the way people do when they’re sitting so they won’t faint.
“I’m sorry,” the man says, holding up a hand as if to wave off the woman behind the counter who’s hurrying to his side. “Running a fever this morning. Oughtn’t to have chanced it. If I rest for just a couple of minutes—”
Noemi doesn’t hear the rest. She can’t hear anything over the sudden rush of blood in her ears. Her breath catches as she stares at the man’s outstretched hand—and at the telltale white lines snaking across his skin.
“Impossible,” she whispers, but then she remembers the stars that hit Genesis, the ones meant to harm them in a way they couldn’t understand. She understands now.
Immediately she runs through the market, weaving between stalls and carts until she finds the area comm station. Her fingers shake as she inputs the code for Darius Akide’s offices. “Yes, hello, this is Lieutenant Noemi Vidal calling for Elder Akide.”
An image takes shape on the screen—not Akide’s usual assistant, but someone else filling in. He frowns at the young woman who somehow has the code for this inner chamber. “Elder Akide has many demands on his time—”
“Tell him it’s me, and tell him it’s an absolute emergency.” Noemi takes a deep breath. “Earth’s using biological weapons. They’ve infected Genesis with Cobweb.”
The Elder Council doesn’t question her, instead immediately going into action. Noemi might have been gratified by their trust if it had done a damn bit of good.
Reports of infection come in from all corners of Genesis. The areas with the most cases of Cobweb are those closest to where the stars made impact, but already people have fallen sick in more remote places. Public advisories go out, encouraging people to wear masks and gloves, to take care of themselves, to recognize the symptoms such as the white lines on the skin. But nobody can tell the citizens of Genesis what they need to know most: how to treat it.
“You described Cobweb as an infectious disease,” says one of the senior government doctors, speaking to Noemi the next day through the Gatsons’ comm unit. “But this level of virulence wasn’t indicated in your report.”
“I didn’t think it could’ve been this bad. When we were on Stronghold, they had quarantine protections in place, but still—it wasn’t like everyone on Stronghold got sick at once.” She rakes her hand through her chin-length black hair. “But maybe—maybe it was the amount of whatever they put in the stars?”
Her own ignorance makes her wince. It’s absurd to be advising senior government officials as a teenager with no medical training at all. They’ve called because Noemi’s the only person on Genesis with any firsthand knowledge of Cobweb. She’s seen it. She’s survived it. That doesn’t mean she has the answers.
“Earth may have manipulated the virus,” says the doctor. “Made it even more virulent.”
“It was man-made in the first place, so maybe so.” Not that anyone knows why Earth bioengineered the Cobweb virus, only that they did. If she’d been able to learn the reason—if Ephraim Dunaway had known it—maybe she could give them some clue about the virus that would actually help. But she’s powerless.
Looking across the room, she sees Mrs. Gatson huddled under a blanket, shivering. This is the only time she’s been out of bed today. The spiderweb rash across her skin barely shows against her pallor. Mr. Gatson hasn’t even tried to rise. Noemi can’t leave the house while they’re this sick, even though she doesn’t know what to do for them.
“When should someone go to the hospital?” she quietly asks the doctor. “How high a fever, or—”
“I’m not sure hospitals will be able to help,” the doctor replies. “They’re already overcrowded, and the situation’s going to worsen when the advisory goes out.”
“What advisory?”
The screen answers her as a brilliant orange border appears, the one the government usually uses when making significant announcements via personal comms. Noemi could read the full text at the bottom, but a single word jumps out, one that blots out everything else:
PANDEMIC.
That one word tells Noemi that Earth has done what it meant to do. It’s weakened their planet and made them vulnerable to attack.
Genesis has withstood thirty years of war, yet one virus may bring down this entire world.
4
ABEL HAD THOUGHT TO PUT IN FOR RESUPPLY ON Stronghold itself, but as soon as they enter the system, that plan collapses.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Zayan breathes as the operations console lights up with warning signals. “The entire system’s on lockdown. Is it another Remedy attack?”
“Unknown.” Abel’s sharp eyes are already looking for either Remedy fighters or security mechs in pursuit of them, but he sees nothing. No space traffic at all, actually. Maybe people have fled the scene of yet another terrorist incident.
Eight space stations and four transit vessels have been destroyed by Remedy since their first, most public strike against the Orchid Festival on Kismet. The death count from these attacks has risen to nearly ten thousand—and that’s if Earth is accurately reporting all the deaths, which Abel doubts. The radical wing of Remedy claims violence is justified to overcome the greater violence Earth visits on its colony worlds, but when he looks at this, all he sees is bloodshed.
He can’t condemn them entirely, because not every member of Remedy is a terrorist. Ephraim Dunaway, the doctor who helped Noemi and Abel escape Stronghold six months earlier—he is a decent man, one who’s trying to reveal Earth’s wrongdoing in order to help people. But they met another Remedy member, too. Riko Watanabe claimed to want justice but sought only revenge.
If Noemi were here, they could discuss whether violence can ever be justified in the pursuit of freedom. She might have a different point of view.
“Abel?” Harriet has an odd look on her face. Abel realizes he’s smiling softly. Remembering Noemi has this effect on him.
Amending his expression, he decides to test his ability to make jokes. He’s been working on that lately. “I’m just relieved we’re running into more trouble. When things go too smoothly, I worry.”
He must’ve done it right, because that makes her laugh. “Come on. Even we catch a break sometimes.”
“Not today,” Zayan says with a grimace. “Receiving signal now—it’s a planetwide quarantine warning. Cobweb.”
Harriet swears in French. Abel says nothing, because for a fraction of a second he’s not in the here and now. He’s remembering six months ago, when Noemi’s skin was covered in the telltale white lines of Cobweb and her fever had spiked so sharply he thought he might lose her.
All Abel’s knowledge, all his many talents, did no good. It was the quick treatment she
got on Stronghold, and the assistance of Ephraim Dunaway, that saved Noemi’s life. He doesn’t like remembering his own powerlessness.
Zayan’s console blinks, informing them they have clearance to land on one of the outer peninsulas, where the disease has apparently been contained, and Harriet’s hands are already on the controls. “Go in for landing?” Zayan asks.
Abel weighs the potential risks, then shakes his head. “I’m not willing to risk your health.”
“Or your own,” Zayan says. “You’re not immortal, you know.”
“True.” Abel’s life span is most likely somewhere around two hundred and fifty years. He still has more than two centuries to go.
“Let’s get out of here.” Harriet begins turning the ship away from Stronghold. “Back through the Earth Gate, then? Even if we shouldn’t land there for a while due to—well, whatever it is you’re not telling us—we could pick up some more mining work in the asteroid belt.”
“Not right now,” Abel says. After Gillian’s demonstration, he badly needs to talk about what he’s seen, and there’s only one person he can discuss this with. “Take us to the Stronghold Gate to Cray, top speed.”
“Cray?” Zayan frowns. “Nobody gets landing clearance on Cray unless they’re preapproved by the scientists. To do that, you have to be a researcher or a merchant or—”
“Or a family member.” Abel decides upon the best stratagem. “Let’s go.”
“Cousin Abel!” Virginia Redbird throws her arms open wide. Her long, red-streaked brown hair hangs free almost to her waist, and her orange coverall is decorated with badges and pins from dozens of different sources. While they’ve been in occasional contact via holos and data transmissions, this is the first time he’s seen her since their escape from Earth nearly six months prior. “My beloved, long-lost cousin! I’ve missed you so much!”
Abel submits to the hug, which gives him the chance to whisper in her ear: “I think the human phrase for this is ‘laying it on too thick.’”
Virginia laughs. “Remember who you’re talking to. I lay everything on too thick.”
This is true. The others standing around the geometric perfection of Cray’s Station 47 landing dock pay absolutely no attention to Virginia’s over-the-top welcome. Only Zayan and Harriet are staring. They’ll get used to her in time.
“Did you come all this way just to visit me?” Virginia slings her arm around Abel’s shoulders, leading him into one of Cray’s underground corridors. The planet’s surface may be a seething red desert, but down here everything is cool and crisp, mostly in various shades of white, orange, and gray. Every shop offers games, snacks, or holos to pamper the brilliant scientists who live here, working with the massive supercomputer powered by the planetary core. “I’m touched by the depth of your family feeling, Abel. Deeply touched.”
He tries to get into the spirit. “Anything for you, Cousin Virginia.”
She laughs out loud in glee. “Who are these friends of yours?”
“Harriet Dixon, Zayan Thakur, this is Virginia Redbird, one of the top science students on Cray.” Abel gestures toward his… friends. Yes, that’s the right word. “Virginia, my friends Harriet and Zayan work as crew on my ship.”
“What’s that ship named these days?” Virginia had seen a few of the fake IDs he had to use during Noemi’s whirlwind trip through the Loop.
“The Persephone,” Zayan offers. When Virginia looks over at Abel, her expression becomes softer. She knows he renamed the ship in Noemi’s honor without his even having to explain the connection. Abel finds himself touched at being understood.
Meanwhile, the George mech that checked the Persephone into dock shows no sign of recognition of either Abel or the ship, though it may well be the exact same George that dealt with them six months before—when a security alert went out for him and Noemi. He has no worries about any human recognizing him from that; their brains discard far more information than they retain. Probably the Georges undergo periodic memory purges, a factor Abel took into account when deciding to return to Cray.
Yet he cannot forget that Burton Mansfield is still looking for his creation. Still eager to destroy Abel’s consciousness—his soul—and replace it with his own. Surely he’s programmed certain mechs to recognize Abel, and then work toward his recapture. That’s a threat Abel lives with every day.
Either he’s been very lucky not to be spotted, or Mansfield knows his location. Tracks him. Waits.
Abel catches himself. Paranoia can lead to a spiral of recursive thoughts. He must remain focused on the moment.
“Harriet, Z, you guys seem great.” Virginia thumps Zayan on the shoulder. “Abel and I need to talk family business for a while. But how about you meet us at Montgolfier at 1900 hours? It’s this restaurant where all the dishes and tables and chairs are made out of energy fields, so it’s like your food is just hovering in space in front of you!… Okay, it’s kind of disgusting, but it’s flash at the same time. You should try it just once.”
Harriet laughs. “Okay, you’re on. Pretty sure we can find plenty to amuse ourselves with around here.” Already Zayan has his sights on one of the games shops. Abel thinks they might have wandered off even without Virginia’s suggestion.
Now he can discuss the advent of the next generation of mechs—without having to hide the fact that he’s a mech.
The Razers’ new secret hideout looks very much like the old one, with the same hodgepodge of computing equipment, inflatable furniture, multicolored string lights, and makeshift ashtrays that smell strongly of controlled substances. “This location, though?” Virginia scoops some abandoned clothing from a chair and motions for Abel to take a seat. “They’ll never find us here, unless Mansfield sends more crazy mechs after you.”
Abel sits in the inflatable chair with as much dignity as he can muster. “I don’t think we have to worry about that right now. My creator seems to have turned to new concerns. I followed up on the research you sent to the Persephone. Mansfield is creating a new kind of mech—one almost entirely organic.”
Virginia’s eyes light up. Other humans react this way when offered sexual intercourse or perhaps that endangered rarity, chocolate. “Jupiter Optimus Maximus! That’s gigantic, Abel! How come it’s not on every news feed in the galaxy?”
“The information is being kept secret, except from a select few wealthy individuals I suspect to be investors.”
“This is amazing. We need specs. We need their data! So we’re going to have to break into Mansfield Cybernetics.” Virginia ticks that off on her finger as if it were any ordinary errand.
“No.” Then he considers the question. “Not yet. Most of the work is only theoretical at this point.”
“Theoretical work is data. Data is our friend. C’mon, man.”
“I understand this, of course,” Abel says. “What I mean is that I think the specifics of Mansfield’s plans are less important at this point. I’m as curious as you are about organic mechs, but another aspect of this is harder to understand. We also need to investigate what he’s finding investors for.”
“For the project with the new organic mechs… which will make him a kajillion dollars, and he already has ten kajillion dollars, so yeah, why does he need investors?” She taps her desk. “You suspect shenanigans.”
“…For lack of a better term, yes.”
“This is ultimate.” Virginia spins her office chair around, then rolls it halfway across the room, her red-streaked hair streaming behind her. She catches herself at the chosen desk and presses a panel that brings up the preliminary data she “skimmed” from Mansfield Cybernetics a few months ago. The holographic blueprint of a mech skeleton hovers in the air, Abel’s own version of the Vitruvian Man. “They’ve probably begun construction—or growth, whatever they’re going to call it with the organics—at least on a limited number. Where do you think they’re doing this?”
“I’m uncertain,” Abel admits as he rises from the inflatable chair, gratefully, to join her
across the room. “Not at one of the main laboratories or factories. Otherwise word would already have spread, despite Mansfield Cybernetics’ best efforts to keep it quiet.”
Virginia’s grin widens. A Razer likes nothing better than a puzzle, and he’s presented her with an excellent one. “So we need to find a secret lab. And we’re working in a secret lab. How great is that?”
He judges this question to be theoretical and says only, “They revealed no specific locations to the investors.”
“Where was this fancy clambake you went to?”
Clambake appears to be the current slang for party, for reasons Abel has not attempted to fathom. “Earth, off the coast of China.”
“That’s pretty far from Mansfield Cybernetics’ main HQ. Pretty far from Mansfield himself, and from the sound of it, he’s in no shape to go traveling these days.”
“True.” And odd—Virginia’s right to point this out. It’s unlike Mansfield to place himself so far from the central action. “But his daughter, Gillian, was in control. He would have perfect faith in her if in no one else.”
“And speaking of Dr. Gillian Shearer…” Virginia brings up yet more data. “Since you told me she’s the boss’s daughter, I’ve been following up on her. Mansfield Cybernetics’ corporate dealings remain as hidden as data gets—like, no one will ever trace their money—but Shearer’s not as careful. Got some bank account info, plus a few personal shipping records. Divorce decree about three years old. The only thing I couldn’t track down was any school record for her son, Simon, age seven, but maybe she’s having a Nan or an Uncle teach him?”
“No doubt.” A memory flickers in Abel’s mind: a holo of Simon as a baby, displayed for him by Mansfield the last time they were together. Mansfield wanted to show him off to Abel only moments before wiping Abel’s memory forever. Mansfield demonstrates his pride in strange ways. Pulling himself back into the moment, Abel adds, “The amount of data you’ve collected—it’s impressive.”