“What? The dance?” Noemi glances over at the scarf-clad girl, who’s still pinwheeling through the sphere, ignoring her catcallers.
“The desperation,” Abel says crisply. “Seeing what’s become of the galaxy since Genesis’s secession. If it bothers you, I can attempt to find a way to minimize your contact with others.”
“We didn’t do this to Earth and the colony worlds.” Noemi shakes her head as the peach lights play on her face. “They did it to themselves. If we hadn’t pulled away when we did, they would’ve done it to us, too. So, no, I’m not troubled. This place proves we did the right thing.”
Abel inclines his head, as if acknowledging that she has a point. She’d like to enjoy that small victory. Instead, however, she looks again at the broken-down ships, the too-skinny Vagabonds, the exploitive culture, and asks herself, Are we responsible for this? We can’t be. We’re the good guys.
Aren’t we?
14
WAYLAND STATION’S SPACEPORT FOLLOWS ONE OF THE commonly used port blueprints stored in Abel’s mind: a broad space with ceilings held approximately forty meters above them by bare metal beams. The air is cool and dry to a degree most humans would find unpleasant, but is very familiar to Abel after thirty years in an equipment pod bay. Every millimeter bustles with activity, as people throng the walkways, struggle with boxes and barrels of cargo, examine various ships, and shout to one another over the noise, which of course only makes the noise worse. Although Abel should find the cacophony unbearable, instead he thrills to it—the beautiful sound of action, of life.
He files the realization away for future reference: Even ordinary things gain great power when we have been without them for too long.
Abel detects the first flaw in their plan when he double-checks the dataread that links them to the Daedalus, aka the Medusa. As soon as he’s pulled up their accounts, freshly minus their docking fees, he says, “We have an unexpected complication.”
“What?” Noemi glances over at the dataread, and her eyes widen as she sees how little money they have left.
“Docking rights on Kismet are exponentially more expensive than they were thirty years ago. When I made my calculations, I allowed for price increases, but the rate of inflation has gone far beyond my expectations.”
“What’s inflation?” Noemi asks.
She is not from a capitalist society, he reminds himself. She can’t help her ignorance. “It’s when money loses worth, and so prices rise. Exponential rises in inflation are common in periods of extreme political upheaval, such as wartime.”
Noemi frowns, and the expression etches a tiny wrinkle between her eyebrows, the one she gets when she’s facing a problem. He is learning how to read her. “Are we going to have enough credits left over to buy the part we need?”
“If the rate of inflation for parts is similar to the one for docking rights, no.”
She sighs. Behind her, the semiclothed dancer finishes her antigrav routine and bows; a few people have the manners to applaud. “If we’re not going to be able to buy it, then I guess we’ll have to steal it.”
Already she has become more pragmatic. Abel wishes he could encourage this trait, but he can’t. “We can attempt to do so, but security for ship parts will probably be tighter than they would be for thermomagnetic devices.”
“Aren’t ship parts cheaper?”
“Yes, but they are regularly sold in stores that will have security to prevent shoplifting. The thermomagnetic device will probably be found in a larger apparatus we can steal from with little fear of being caught in the act.”
“All right, fine,” Noemi says. “Then we’ll earn money. We’ll find work. Something that lets us get paid quickly.”
He’d hoped she would be more discouraged. More intimidated. That she would show him more weaknesses… but why? His programming won’t allow him to work against her. Observing her flaws would only gratify him on this new emotional level he doesn’t entirely understand.
Disappointed, he turns his attention to the motley outfits chosen by the Vagabonds milling around them. They wear oversize garments layered over basic leggings and shirts, complete with work boots of varying heights. Scarves of different colors have been knotted to serve as hats or headdresses, belts or shawls. Utility belts are slung around waists and over shoulders. Is this a matter of style or of function? Abel suspects the latter motivation is stronger. Everything but the boots could clearly serve more than one purpose, if needed.
A plainer sign ahead reads ORCHID FESTIVAL WORKERS REGISTRATION, and many Vagabonds have crowded close. Noemi brightens, which is as close as he’s seen her come to smiling. “Of course. The festival—that’s why so many people are on Wayland Station. They’re hoping for temporary work there.”
“Then we’re in luck.” Abel guides them into the part of the throng that looks most likely to be a queue.
Directly ahead of them stands a couple only a year or two older than Noemi herself, both dressed in Vagabond clothes. Abel’s acute hearing can’t help but pick up on their conversation.
“The first thing I’m going to eat is cinnamon toast.” This is from the female of the couple, a tall woman whose skin color, long braids, and accent suggest Afro-Caribbean ancestry. He had noticed her speaking to Noemi during the Cobweb inspections. “No, no, wait! Do you think they’d have fresh fruit, Zayan?”
“What I’d do for a mango,” sighs Zayan, a male slightly shorter than her, whom Abel would guess to be a native of India or Bangladesh. “You’ve got to try one, Harriet. If they’re half as good as I remember, they’re like a taste of paradise.” The two of them grin at each other and clasp hands tightly—but then the girl with braids, Harriet, catches a glimpse of Noemi and waves. Noemi gives her a little smile. Is she attempting to befriend the Vagabonds? Surely not. That would only endanger their cover story.
Replaying the conversation between Harriet and Zayan, Abel notes that food shortages must have increased. Mangoes weren’t rare on Earth when he left.
“As long as they’re hiring,” Harriet says—a throwaway comment, it seems, but it makes a nearby middle-aged man with a beard turn around and scoff.
“Positions filled up months ago. You had to register remotely, didn’t you know?” The bearded fellow laughs at the two young Vagabonds, as if they’d told a joke. “There’s no more work here. Give it up.”
Disappointing, but Abel feels sure they can come up with another employment possibility. But the young couple in front of them looks stricken, so much so that Abel fears both may be in danger of fainting.
“Hey,” Noemi says awkwardly, her hands clasped in front of her. “It’s going to be all right.”
“It isn’t, actually.” Harriet sniffles and wipes at her face. “Why didn’t we check? If we’d only just checked before we paid the dock fee—”
Zayan puts his arm around her. “We’ve stretched the rations this far, haven’t we?”
“This is our last week.” Harriet’s voice trembles. “You know it is.”
Zayan takes a deep breath. “Let’s just… sit, all right? We can’t think straight when we’re this tired and hungry. If we can’t eat, we can rest.” With a nod toward Noemi, he leads Harriet to a small bench beneath yet more holographic advertisements, where the two of them embrace tightly.
Noemi’s dark eyes never leave Harriet and Zayan, even as Abel walks her to the side of the corridor. She whispers, “Won’t anyone feed them?”
“It seems few people have much to spare.”
“The people coming to this Orchid Festival thing have enough to spare. They could share if they were decent human beings.”
“Human beings and decency don’t always go together.” Abel blinks, somewhat surprised he said that out loud. Quickly he moves the conversation along. “We’ll have to devise another means of income.”
“How?”
He takes another look down the corridor, with its gaudy, titillating advertisements. “At this point, our swiftest and most reliabl
e means of making money is prostitution.”
Noemi takes a step back, her mouth an O of astonishment. “You—you didn’t just say—you think I should become a prostitute?”
“Of course not. You’re my commander. I serve you. Therefore, I would be the more logical choice to take on sex work.” Abel should’ve kept on the nicer clothing he’d worn earlier; brothel owners would’ve seen his body displayed to better advantage. Regardless, he feels sure to be hired. “I’ve been programmed with virtually all of the skills held by other mechs, including the Fox and Peter models. My repertoire of sexual positions and techniques far exceeds those of virtually any human, and my physical form was designed to maximize both visual and tactile appeal.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Noemi shakes her head in consternation. A slender young woman with short black hair, dressed like resort staff, has wandered toward them while working on her datapad, and Noemi is obviously choosing her words carefully to keep from giving away too much of their story. “Abel, I can’t let you… sell your body.”
“The transaction is closer to a rental.”
“You know what I mean! I’m not comfortable with you doing that.”
They have no time to waste on Genesis prudery. “Are you more comfortable running out of funds? Running out of time? Failing to return home?”
Noemi looks up at him, as stricken as though he had offered to make money by murdering children instead. Sex is one of Abel’s programmed functions; he can therefore use this to benefit his commander. He’s on the verge of telling her so when the young woman steps toward them. “Listen—I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear—don’t get involved in that, okay? It’s work you should only take up if you’re sure you want it and can handle it. Not because you’re desperate.”
“We have few other options,” Abel says.
The woman sighs and tucks her datapad under one arm, then says, in a low voice, “Can you be discreet?”
“Absolutely,” Abel replies.
Noemi isn’t as quick to seize the chance. “About what?”
The young woman folds her arms. “About anything I ask you to be discreet about. I may have a job for you. But what you see in the warehouse area stays in the warehouse. And I mean, anything you see. Do that, and I think we can work well together.”
“We’ll report nothing,” Abel promises. Although Noemi looks warier, she finally nods.
“I must be going soft,” says the woman, shaking her head. “But I think I can fit in two more at the loading dock.”
Abel’s opening his mouth to accept her offer when Noemi says, “There are four of us. Is that okay?” She gestures toward Harriet and Zayan. “We all need the work pretty badly.”
“So I hear.” The woman gives Abel an up-and-down look, as though assessing how he would’ve fared as a sex worker. With a sigh, she adds, “Definitely going soft. Sure, we can take four, as long as all of you know to keep your mouths shut.”
“Thank you.” And there’s Noemi’s smile at last—radiant, only because she’s been able to help other people, who were strangers to her not ten minutes before.
Their new employer goes over to speak with Harriet and Zayan. As they laugh in astonished delight, Abel quietly says to Noemi, “You took a great risk to help strangers.”
“They’re my fellow human beings. That makes it my job to take care of them.” Her dark eyes narrow as she looks at him. “I wouldn’t expect a mech to understand.”
He had meant to express his approval of Noemi’s actions; his programming classifies selflessness as one of the highest virtues. It would have to. However, given the ways he’s insulted her throughout the day, she has concluded that anything he says is intended to be unkind.
It’s not an irrational conclusion, considering the evidence he’s given her.
Yet Abel finds himself troubled by the idea that Noemi dislikes him even more than he dislikes her. Why should it matter? He can think of no reason to care about his destroyer’s opinion… but he does.
Nor does he dislike her as much as he did an hour ago.
This problem with his emotions will have to be looked into.
Mechs are constructed, then grown. Factories produce the mechanical brain stem and skeletal framework; the brain stems are placed into cloning tanks where organic brains grow around them; the newly synthesized brain does the rest, pulling the necessary nutrients and minerals from the slippery pink goo that fills the tanks.
Abel remembers waking up in such a tank. Mansfield was waiting for him, hands outstretched, his smile the very first thing Abel ever saw.
However, most mech brains aren’t kindled into consciousness until they’ve been shipped and sold. They are sealed into translucent bags and transported like any other kind of cargo. Codes stamped onto the bags’ seals reveal model, manufacturer index number, destination, and owner. Abel has watched their distribution many times and has never understood why he finds the impersonal, efficient shipping process so… distasteful.
Now, on Kismet, he sees that humans can be treated this way, too.
“Okay, everybody, listen up!” shouts their new employer, the young woman with short black hair. The sarong she wears is patterned with lines that, close up, reveal the name of the resort they now work for—a detail Abel finds irrelevant, given that they are going no farther than this dank warehouse area of Wayland Station. “My name’s Riko Watanabe, and I’m going to guide you through the process here. What we do is coordinate shipments to the resort guests. Many of them traveled here in racers, which means their personal belongings have been shipped separately.” She gestures through the warehouse, which is filled with various trunks made of woven metals or even what looks like genuine leather. Abel wonders where anyone found a real cow. “We have to line up the shipments with the resort accommodations, making sure everyone’s got exactly what they want as soon as we can get it to them. Got it?”
Murmurs and nods of assent are her reply. Riko claps her hands and lets them get to work…
… which means hauling trunks, checking electronic tags, and steering forklifts to landing craft destined for the beautiful shores of Kismet, which Abel and Noemi will never see. Abel doesn’t mind, but he notices Noemi frowning every time she thinks no one is watching.
Still, she works hard. She doesn’t complain. She talks sometimes with Harriet and Zayan, when their duties allow. It’s as if she welcomes the distraction—from fear, he thinks. Though at this point, he doesn’t think she’s afraid of the mission, or the new world, both of which she’s adapting to swiftly.
What other thing is she afraid of? Is it the same thing driving her to go faster, to wait no longer than necessary?
The only time Noemi speaks to Abel, she says, “How many days of this do we need to make enough money for the part we need?”
“Five,” he says. Then he adds, “I would note that this warehouse seems to be located near one for spare parts, suggesting security protocols would be similar.”
Noemi tilts her head. “Are you going to break in?”
“Near the end of the festival’s first day,” he says. “Human psychology suggests that is when the greatest number of people will be distracted.”
He expects her to object due to her rigid Genesis morality, to refuse to steal when she could wait slightly longer to buy. Instead she takes a deep breath. “Tomorrow, then. One more day.”
Something is weighing on her. But what?
And whatever it is—is it something Abel should help Noemi with? Or is it something he should use against her, if he can?
In the evening, after a meal of nutrient mush euphemistically called “bean salad,” they’re shown to their accommodations.
Noemi stops short when she sees them. “What the—”
“Mobile pods,” Abel explains as the vast wall of metal capsules shifts, bringing yet another pod closer to the ground, where two more workers step inside. Other capsules rearrange themselves near the top, each of them taking a new position every few mi
nutes. It’s like watching a jigsaw puzzle solving itself. “These are commonly used throughout the colony worlds for temporary housing at work sites, at vacation spots—even in prisons sometimes, in order to deter escape and rescue attempts.”
“Vidal, Mansfield, this way,” calls the attendant.
“We’re supposed to share a pod?” Noemi tenses and hugs herself. “Just great.”
Abel isn’t much more thrilled about spending the next several hours lying next to his destroyer, but he tries to handle the matter more gracefully. He steps into the pod and inspects the interior; it’s all pale resin and metal, two bunks side by side, a small head hidden by a semicircular inner wall, and no windows. Most humans would probably find it claustrophobic. For Abel, it’s simply a place besides the pod bay, and therefore very welcome.
“I don’t know how you spend your time all night while human beings sleep,” Noemi says as they settle into their bunks, “but whatever you do, don’t stare at me.”
“I sleep.”
“You do?” Her curiosity overcomes her distrust. “But—well, why? Doesn’t that just make you useless for a few hours a day?”
“I don’t need as much sleep as a human, so I’d always be able to serve if needed.”
“But why sleep at all?”
“The same reasons humans sleep. My bodily functions need time to process, plus my memory capacity requires flushing of irrelevant data. Sleep provides a chance to do this. Did they not teach you this on Genesis?”
“It’s not something we specifically went over. We only ever saw Charlies and Queens, and they weren’t taking any naps in the middle of a battle.”
“Understandable.” Abel lies back and neatly unfolds his blanket.
They lie there for a few long moments, wordless, hearing only the grind and thump of the mobile pod framework. When their pod moves, the effect isn’t jarring—more like being in a ship on the water.
He should go to sleep now and allow Noemi to do the same. Yet he feels restless. Still in need of fresh input. Besides, it’s obvious Noemi will require far more time before she can relax enough to sleep in his presence. So he ventures, “What displeased you so much today?”