Defy the Worlds

  A Zebra model comes up to them, holding out his hand. “Professor Mansfield, Dr. Shearer, welcome to the first stage of the great journey. Your suites are fully prepared.”

  “I’ll want to see the labs,” Mansfield says. “Not right away, of course, but soon. Sometime before we get going. How long is that again?”

  “We plan to set off as soon as Minister Cheng arrives in approximately ten hours.”

  Mansfield and Gillian exchange a look of horror. Ten hours isn’t much time for Abel to catch up to them. Noemi ducks her head to hide her smile. He’ll never make it. Mansfield will never get his claws into Abel again.

  Now if only I can get out of his claws myself—

  The Zebra turns its attention to Noemi, though he speaks to Mansfield and Gillian. “May I inquire as to your guest?”

  “Her name is Noemi Vidal,” Gillian says, taking Noemi’s arm as though they were on some kind of date, “and she’s to be kept away from any sensitive ship areas. Put together sensor checks that will alert us if she goes anywhere near a weapon or an air lock. And put her into one of the empty cabins, preferably the one closest to mine.”

  Any human would immediately understand that those are nothing like the normal instructions for a “guest.” The Zebra nods politely, his smile unchanging. “Let us know if we can do anything for you before our departure, Miss Vidal.”

  Noemi sees the chance and pounces on it. “Our departure to where, exactly?”

  But Mansfield waggles one finger as his Tare model helps him into a low-hovering chair. “Don’t tell her a thing. I want it to be a surprise.”

  If the Zebra’s programming allows him to recognize how weird this is, he gives no sign. “The prelaunch cocktail party is already in progress. I can escort you there now if you’d like.”

  Inclining her head, Gillian says, “Please.” As they all set out, Noemi walks behind them, trying to figure out this charade. But each event is more surreal than the last. Her heart remains on Genesis, imagining all the pain there. Her body still trembles from the adrenaline of being taken hostage and of fearing for both her life and Abel’s. But her mind has to somehow gather the self-control for a… cocktail party.

  Maybe the gas they pumped into my starfighter didn’t just knock me out, Noemi thinks. Maybe this is all one big hallucination.

  The Zebra leads them from the docking bay. A Yoke hastens by with a tray of glasses filled with something fizzy; Mansfield shakes his head, but Gillian takes one, and Noemi figures she might as well, too. When she gains a swallow, she’s startled to realize it’s strongly alcoholic, but manages to get that mouthful down without coughing.

  They walk through a corridor with carpets so thick they seem to caress her feet with every step. A faint gold shimmer lines the curving walls, and cobalt-blue sconces are shaped like scarab beetles. This doesn’t look like a spacecraft to her. It’s more like the way she always envisioned a palace. The air not only smells but feels pleasant; it takes Noemi a few seconds to realize that’s because there’s some humidity—not much, but more than the usual arid conditions aboard a spaceship.

  Humidity wears out a ship. Damages the pipes. Noemi was trained to vent her starfighter and her suit after every flight, because too much water in the works will break it down faster than anything but an explosion. Whoever built a spaceship this extravagant and advanced has to know that.

  Are the passengers too rich to care about using up this entire ship?

  Finally the Zebra leads them to a tall set of arched doors, inlaid with enameled tiles. The Zebra steps back to allow their party through as the doors slide open to reveal a gold-plated room filled with a swirl of beautiful people—young and glamorous, dressed in sumptuous clothes—carrying their own glasses of bubbling wine. Honey-colored light filters through panels of what looks like real amber. As the partygoers laugh and chatter, they seem more than cheerful. The mood is closer to exuberance, delight, even elation. Mechs are everywhere, catering to each human whim: Two Oboes and a William play string instruments on the dais while Yokes offer fine wines and finger food that smells richer than any meal Noemi’s ever had.

  When Mansfield and Gillian come through the doors, all the guests turn as one. Everyone smiles, and a few people even clap softly. A crowd begins to form around them, eager to personally greet the great cyberneticist and his famous scientist daughter. Seeing them so fawned over is more than Noemi can stand, so she edges away through the throng—still in the party, still obeying Gillian’s dictates. But now she’s able to take stock of her surroundings, plus do some quality eavesdropping.

  Noemi pretends to be very interested in picking out a petit four from a Yoke’s tray while she focuses her attention on Gillian and the black-haired man talking with her.

  “—feel sure you entirely agree that pushing up the launch schedule was unnecessary.” The man smiles, but it’s the fierce, teeth-bared smile of someone who expects to get his own way and hasn’t this time. “I hardly had time to pack my baggage, much less get it here!”

  “Of course, Vinh,” Gillian says. She can sound pleasant when she tries. “Yes, if they’ve picked up ionization trails, maybe we have a few small ships scouting this location, but that’s no reason for panic. My father and I have our own vital reasons for wanting to delay the launch. This greatly interferes with his… medical treatment. But we don’t have veto power over this.”

  Vinh’s anger is clear even without its target being in the room. “How dare they inconvenience you, two of the most illustrious passengers on this ship? Especially when your family has been through so much lately.” The side of Gillian’s face twitches; Noemi glimpses it and wonders what it means, but Vinh doesn’t even notice. “We should lodge a protest with the captain immediately. Your names on a petition would carry real weight.”

  Hearing Abel’s murder described as Mansfield’s “medical treatment” is too much to take. Noemi takes another few steps back and begins weaving her way through the crowd, trying to get a sense of the room’s dimensions. She notices one tray in a Yoke’s hands: It’s filled with cheeses and breads, and also on the tray is a knife for trimming the cheeses to the guests’ demands.

  It’s not much of a knife, but it has a pointed tip. Noemi could pierce skin and flesh with that. Later on this trip, she may need to. She can’t really steal it while dozens of people are looking on, but she makes a note for later: They’re careless. The only weapons they think about are blasters. They won’t be watching the cheese knives.

  She keeps working her way around the room. As she goes, she jostles a girl a few years younger than she is—no, someone a few years older, an adult, although this woman’s not quite five feet tall and so thin that she looks more like a little kid. The woman’s champagne spills on Noemi’s jumpsuit. “Oops! So sorry! Let me get that,” she says, gesturing at a Dog to dab at Noemi’s clothes. “I’m Delphine Ondimba. I don’t think we ever met at one of the prelim retreats, did we?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What a beautiful outfit!” Delphine beams. “It sets off your figure wonderfully. I wish I could wear things like that—but when I do, I look even tinier than I am, and people start acting like I should still be playing with dolls.”

  “You look great,” Noemi ventures, and she genuinely likes the look of Delphine’s flowing white silk caftan and heavily jeweled earrings. But she feels like she’s playing an elaborate game of dress up. More to the point, she’s not learning anything about this ship’s layout, which means she’s no closer to figuring out her escape. Time to keep moving. To Delphine she says, “I’m sure we’ll run into each other later.”

  It’s a mundane brush-off, which is why Noemi’s so surprised when Delphine breaks into peals of laughter. “‘Run into each other’! Yes, I bet we will, at some point in the next fifty years or so.”

  Fifty years?

  Noemi opens her mouth to ask—then goes silent as the ship shudders beneath her feet. The entire party changes mood in an instant as s
miles melt to frowns. All the musician mechs stop on precisely the same beat. “Well, what in the worlds is that?” Delphine says. “Are we taking off already?”

  “My last shipment hasn’t arrived!” Furiously Vinh stomps toward a side door, which slides open to reveal a large plasma window that shows the starfield around them. “If they’ve moved the launch even closer, I’m going to demand a full—”

  Brilliant green light flares through the window, blinding everyone in the room, and the entire ship rocks so violently that most of the passengers fall to the floor. Noemi manages to stay on her feet, barely. Staggering to the window, she peers into the darkness beyond. Only her military training allows her to pick out the faint glints of metal and slashes of movement that hint at what’s going on outside—a pitched battle between the Osiris’s mechs and a swarm of unknown fighter craft.

  The ship shudders again—another blast must’ve landed somewhere else—and then the soft gold illumination in the room switches to blinking red alarm lights. Over the speaker, someone shouts, “All hands to emergency stations! We’re under attack!”

  A few people begin screaming. Noemi turns back to the window, realizing that the fight outside involves at least hundreds of combatants—maybe more than a thousand. Whoever came after this ship came in force.

  Delphine holds one hand to her chest, as if that’s all that’s keeping her racing heart inside. “Attack? Who would be attacking us?”

  It’s Gillian Shearer who answers, her oval face gone an even starker white. “Remedy.”

  12

  THE JOURNEY TO NEPTUNE COULD BE COMPLETED MUCH more quickly if Abel put the Persephone’s mag engines into overdrive mode. However, that would tax them to the limit, holding him to slower speeds for some days to come. Abel projects that he’ll probably require the ship’s highest level of velocity to escape with Noemi after freeing her.

  This means he won’t reach Neptune for hours. He has no solid data nor even any theories as to what he will find there. Therefore he can’t construct any meaningful plans, much less calculate their relative probabilities of success. Abel will spend the hours of the journey with little to do besides worry about Noemi.

  He’d always understood himself to have greater capacities for patience and calm than humans. This self-assessment will have to be reconsidered.

  As the Persephone clears Saturn’s orbit, he stands in his cabin, which used to be Mansfield’s, and attempts to fix his full focus on the wall. He doesn’t dislike the once-famous painting already hanging there, one of Monet’s Water Lilies. But impressionist techniques aren’t as effective on mechs. Humans look at the swirls of paint and see the translucency of water. Abel sees swirls of paint. Understanding the illusion is not the same as experiencing it.

  The Kahlo is propped in one corner. He’d thought to hang that one instead, so the room would reflect his preferences instead of his creator’s, but it’s so small—and it’s not the kind of painting to be peacefully stared at while falling asleep. It demands attention and analysis. It disquiets.

  Right now, when Abel feels as though his every circuit is overloading with the need to reach Noemi, he doesn’t need any more disquiet. The water lilies can stay where they are.

  What could pull Mansfield so far from home when his condition is so frail—and when he believed Abel to be within hours of his possession? A move so dangerous suggests other involved parties with power even greater than Burton Mansfield’s, and urgent priorities still unguessed. Still, whatever cards Mansfield has left to play will be played in pursuit of one primary goal: immortality. Noemi’s kidnapping proves that Abel is still Mansfield’s only sure route to avoiding death—

  Your thoughts are becoming highly repetitive, Abel reminds himself. This is counterproductive. Find other points of focus.

  He takes another step back, trying yet again to see the Monet as a human would. He ought to have asked Noemi about it. Maybe that night after he nearly froze doing work on the outer hull, and she lay in here beside him as he thawed—he could’ve asked her then—

  A chime sounds, indicating an incoming communications transmission, a response to his earlier signal. Abel instantly dashes to the nearest console because he finally has something useful to do.

  The screen lights up to reveal Harriet and Zayan, crowded together into what looks like a public, open-air comm booth. In the distance behind them he sees green hills shrouded in clouds, serene and beautiful; they appear to be visiting some of the last surviving tea gardens on Earth.

  “You’re all right!” Harriet says, a huge grin on her face. “Noemi’s safe and we’re getting back to work.”

  Zayan laughs. “That wasn’t much of a vacation! Still, if Noemi’s okay, that’s all that matters.”

  “Noemi is not yet safe, but your vacation has ended—if you choose to take on this work, which I hope you will.” Abel cannot require them to do this, only ask.

  “What’s going on?” Harriet asks. “How do we help Noemi?”

  “I don’t need your help to rescue Noemi,” he replies. “I need you to assist a friend of mine who is a member of Remedy.”

  Both Harriet and Zayan sit back, with near identical expressions of shock. It’s Zayan who finds his voice first. “You swore to us you were never in Remedy.”

  “Nor have I been. But I have contacts within the group, and one of those contacts needs help.”

  Harriet’s shaking her head so vehemently that her braids shake. “No. No way. Abel, we love working with you, but signing up with terrorists? Never.”

  “Ephraim Dunaway is a member of the moderate wing of Remedy,” Abel says. He uses Ephraim’s name deliberately. Harriet and Zayan will see it as a show of trust, which it is. Even if they won’t help, they won’t turn Ephraim in. Abel needs them to understand that he knows this. “He’s one of the people who’re working to get control from the more violent wing. More to the point, he’s a doctor, and he’s trying to save Genesis.”

  “Genesis?” Zayan shakes his head, as if to clear it. “Wait, how did Genesis come into this?”

  Abel’s explanation plays a symphony of reactions over their faces—horror, then hope, then uncertainty. He has no idea how they’ll answer, but he must ask: “I can send the contact information for Ephraim. If you can reach out to him and help him find a few ships to hire—Vagabonds you personally know and trust—”

  “Can’t do it.” Harriet folds her arms across her chest. “You were at the Orchid Festival bombing the same as us. You saw what they did. You tell me this Dunaway wasn’t a part of that, all right, I believe you. But I don’t trust Remedy, and I’m not putting my neck on the line for them. Right, Zayan?”

  But Zayan doesn’t answer. Only when she’s turned to him, eyes wide, does he say, “I think we have to do something.”

  “Are you batcrap crazy?” Harriet explodes. “This is Remedy. You seriously want us to join Remedy?”

  Zayan turns toward her, and Abel is no longer a participant in the conversation, only an observer. “Of course not. But that’s not what this is. We wouldn’t be attacking anyone, just helping run medicine to Genesis. That’s different.”

  “You really think Earth’s going to let medical ships or anything else go through the Genesis Gate?” Harriet demands.

  Abel doesn’t get a chance to answer, because Zayan immediately says, “That’s where Remedy comes in. They’d be—you know—the muscle. But we’d be doing good. Helping people.”

  Harriet’s ire has faded, but her eyes remain wary. “We could get caught.”

  “Yeah, well, nobody said doing the right thing was easy. And I know you. You’d never be able to live with yourself if you walked away from this.” Zayan turns from Harriet back to Abel. “So, what, we’d help this Ephraim Dunaway guy find some good Vagabond ships to hire—”

  “No,” Harriet cuts in. Her tone of voice has changed, become electric. “We reach out to lots of Vagabonds. Tons of them. If you’re going to get a shipment through the Genesis Gate, you’re
going to need as big a fleet as possible. You’re going to need… hundreds of ships, probably. If we put the word out that we’re standing up to Earth, putting together a rescue convoy, strength in numbers and all that—I bet we’ll find lots of volunteers.” To Zayan, who’s staring at her openmouthed, she says, “Well, if we’re doing this thing, let’s not half-ass it.”

  Zayan grins at her. “This is why I love you.”

  “Is that the only reason?” She arches an eyebrow.

  Abel knows from experience that Zayan and Harriet are fully capable of flirting and taking care of key tasks at the same time, but this practice will leave them with no attention left over for him. “I’ll be out of contact for a while,” he says. “Work with Ephraim, trust your own judgment, and don’t wait to hear from me.”

  That brings them back to him, concern clear on both their faces. “All right,” Harriet says slowly, “but if you need help, you call us. Anywhere, anytime. Got it?”

  “Understood.”

  It occurs to Abel to wonder whether Burton Mansfield has ever had friends who would pledge their loyalty to him, despite danger, without any hope of personal reward. Maybe not. Maybe that was one reason why he made Abel and wove Directive One so thoroughly throughout his brain. Mansfield chose to program love rather than earn it.

  Abel knows down to the second the moment he’ll be within sensor range of Neptune’s moon Proteus. Yet he waits on the bridge for almost an hour beforehand, unable to focus on anything else, staring at the viewscreen and willing the alert to sound.

  Without Zayan and Harriet, Abel doesn’t bother with his captain’s chair. Instead he sits at ops, checking and double-checking every system on the ship, waiting, waiting—

  The proximity alert sounds. Instantly he brings up the long-range images of the moon Proteus. His viewscreen fills with unexpected details; he frowns as he identifies a docking framework and a passenger ship—an enormous passenger ship, one that could carry perhaps ten thousand individuals on shorter journeys, or thoroughly provision and entertain a small number in great style. Given the appearance of the ship, Abel suspects the latter. This vessel—surely the Osiris Mansfield spoke of—is as intricate and golden as any piece of jewelry found in an Egyptian pharaoh’s tomb, with designs in styles no doubt meant to evoke that comparison.