2

HALF A GALAXY AWAY, ON A LUSH RESORT ISLAND OFF the coast of China, Abel is crashing a party.

“Thank you,” he says to the George model who hands back his identibadge, the one Abel personally programmed with false data. George mechs are only equipped with enough intelligence for uninteresting bureaucratic tasks, and this one performed only routine checks, all of which Abel had taken into account. It would take a far deeper inquiry to discover any issues. Even a human would’ve been unlikely to determine that the man walking into the party is not actually named Kevin Lambert, is not a lifelong resident of Great Britain, and is not a potential investor in Mansfield Cybernetics.

The party fills a large, oval, translucent bubble suspended not far above the ocean, surrounded by a few smoky side rooms and corridors that wind around it like the precious-metal setting around a jewel. So far, attendees number approximately two hundred and seventeen; he’ll finalize this count once he’s certain he’s accounted for people who might be in bathrooms or hallways. There’s at least one service mech for every three partygoers, a mixture of Dogs and Yokes handing around food on trays, a couple of scantily clad Fox and Peter models no doubt provided for after-party entertainment, and three Oboes in the corner, playing music just loud enough to ensure people can still converse.

Abel’s information about popular music aged badly during the thirty years of his confinement. He’s still catching up. After nearly a century of slower, gentler, neoclassical music, up-tempo tunes have returned to popularity. This song, with a hundred and forty beats per minute, is clearly meant to echo a human heartbeat in a state of excitement, thus stimulating listeners on both conscious and subconscious levels….

Then he stops analyzing the music and simply asks himself, Do you like it?

Yes. He does.

A slight smile on his face, Abel walks into the heart of the gathering. He’s surrounded on all sides by the rich and beautiful—slim bodies garbed in richly patterned kimonos, jackets and trousers cut to emphasize attractiveness, and silk dresses that do little to conceal every curve and plane of the bodies within.

Only 3.16 meters beneath the transparent flooring, the dark water ripples past, waves forming under their feet to break on the distant shore. Soft bands of light sweep downward repeatedly as if the illumination were flowing along the walls into the sea.

The dataread tucked into Abel’s black silk jacket pulses once. Rather than pull it out, he simply taps his chest pocket and localizes the range of his hearing. The crowd’s murmuring instantly becomes muted.

“How’s it going down there?” asks Harriet Dixon, who works as the pilot of Abel’s ship, the Persephone. She’s generally full of bubbly optimism, but she gets nervous when she can tell Abel isn’t telling her the full story. “Finished trading the ‘big and sparkly’ yet?”

He snags a glass of champagne from a nearby Yoke’s tray to complete his image as a partygoer. “Not yet.”

This is untrue. He sold the diamond they mined from a meteor near Saturn as soon as they made landfall on Earth. His other tasks do not concern Harriet and her partner, Zayan Thakur. Involving them would only put them at risk. Abel has begun calculating the morality of lying in more complex ways, of late.

“As long as you’re not losing it at a casino,” Harriet says. “That stone’s going to fetch us enough to live on for months! If you manage it right.”

“I will,” Abel says. In fact the price he got could probably pay for a full year’s operating costs. He will cut Harriet and Zayan in for equal shares of the haul, but he has chosen to distribute larger windfalls in smaller, scheduled installments. When he met his crew members six months ago, they were very near the point of starvation. The natural psychological result of such privation is the impulse to spend any funds as quickly as they come in, sometimes on pure extravagance. This isn’t unique to Harriet and Zayan; most Vagabonds are so used to living on scarce resources that they’re often unsure how to handle prosperity. Such luxuries don’t tempt Abel.

His one temptation lurks at the far edge of the Earth system, monitored by security satellites—the Genesis Gate.

The pathway that would lead back to Noemi, and probably to his own death.

Sometimes that journey seems worth the price.

“I promise I won’t gamble it away,” Abel adds. “I should be back on the Persephone within two hours.”

“You’d better be.” That’s Zayan, clearly shouting over from his ops station. “Or we’ll turn Earth upside down looking for you.”

“Security stations, too.” Harriet’s picked up on the fact that Abel uses false identification and tries hard to avoid interacting with Queen and Charlie models. She is highly intelligent, but understandably has not figured out precisely why he avoids them. No doubt she’s assumed he’s in trouble with the law on some system or another. “You’re the luckiest Vagabond I ever saw. But everyone’s luck runs out someday, Abel.”

Abel doesn’t have “luck.” He simply has a better understanding of probabilities than any biological life-form. The effect is much the same. “You won’t have to search any security stations. I promise.” As a George model steps to the acoustic center of the room, he adds, “I’ll be in touch once I’m done here. Captain out.”

No sooner does he silence the dataread than the music stops midbeat. The human partygoers fall silent just as quickly as the mech band.

A spotlight falls over the George, who calls, “If we may have your attention, the program is about to begin. Our Mansfield Cybernetics presents your host for tonight, renowned scientist and philosopher Dr. Gillian Mansfield Shearer.”

Applause breaks out across the room as a woman in her early forties walks to the heart of the light. In the distance Abel overhears someone whispering, “I can’t believe she’s here tonight. I thought she would’ve sent a representative—”

“This is important,” says that person’s companion. Abel doesn’t bother looking to see exactly who it is. Gillian Shearer is his lone point of focus. The brilliance makes her red hair gleam. At 154.12 centimeters in height, she stands shorter than the average human female, but her posture and intensity suggest greater power. The plain black dress she wears looks out of place in this room of glamorous gowns and silk suits—as if a funeral attendee had suddenly walked into the party. It hangs slightly loose on her, as though she had lost a great deal of weight in a hurry, or she is one of those humans who considers fashion a waste of time.

Dr. Shearer has a strong nose, and her hair has a widow’s peak. These are features she and Abel share, because they inherited them from the same DNA.

Abel is Burton Mansfield’s creation; Gillian Shearer is his daughter.

Abel steps halfway behind a taller partygoer. Probably Gillian’s human eyes can’t make out anyone’s features past the glare of that spotlight, but Abel’s taking no chances. She might notice his strong resemblance to a younger Mansfield, or she might simply remember him.

Abel remembers her.

“I wish I could talk with Mommy again. Mommy always knew how to make it better.” Gillian looks up at him, tears welling in her blue eyes as he carefully applies the synthskin to her bloody knuckles; she says he’s better at it than the household Tare. In this moment she is eight years, one month, and four days old. “Daddy says someday I’ll get to talk to Mommy, but why isn’t it now?”

Robin Mansfield died some months before Abel achieved consciousness. He has assumed Burton Mansfield believed in no supreme being, but perhaps the concept of heaven would comfort a child. “That would be very far in the future.”

“It could be now! Daddy got it all wrong.” Gillian’s scowl is too fierce for her tiny face. “Instead he made you to take care of me.”

“And for other purposes,” he said, smoothing the synthskin with his fingertips, proud to have been chosen ahead of the Tare. “But I’ll take care of you.”

Perhaps he should remember her fondly. But everything that reminds him of Burton Mansfield has been poisoned for Abel, possibly forever—and that includes his daughter.

“Assembled guests,” Gillian says. The greater depth and resonance of her voice is to be expected post-adolescence, but it nonetheless startles Abel. “For two generations, Mansfield Cybernetics has stood alone in its capacity to create, update, and perfect the artificial intelligences that support our society. It’s now hard to imagine how we would manage without Bakers and Items to handle complex but mundane tasks, Dogs and Yokes to perform manual labor, Mikes and Tares to care for us when we’re sick, Nans and Uncles to tend our children and our elderly, and the Queens and Charlies that keep us safe throughout the galaxy.”

Polite applause briefly fills the room. A meter from Abel, a Yoke stands still, tray of champagne glasses in her hands, a useful object in human form. He cannot reject Gillian’s assessment of a Yoke as no more than that; the sense of self within him—his soul, Noemi called it—is shared by no other mech. But he still looks into the Yoke’s eyes and wishes he could see another soul looking back.

Gillian gestures at a nearby screen, which lights up as the spotlight falls dark. Different models of mech appear in rotation—leonine Queens, designed to fight; humble Dogs for manual labor; silvery, inhuman X-Rays that project the faces of others. “We’re constantly updating and perfecting each of the twenty-five models of mech in current production. However, those models have remained fundamentally unchanged for decades—primarily because the service they provide is capable and consistent. But my father and I had another reason for maintaining the models as they are: We didn’t want to dramatically alter the market until we had an innovation worth altering our entire galaxy.” On the screen, the mech tanks growing shapes in rough human form shift into red bubbles—Force fields? A polymer? Abel can’t tell from visual input alone—with shadowy fetal shapes inside. Gillian doesn’t smile, but she lifts her chin so that her face is bathed in the crimson light of this vision of the future. “Now, at last, we believe we’ve made that breakthrough.”

Applause bursts out again, more enthusiastic than before, as the screen image shifts into the forms of two embryos with brightly glowing mech components in the area of the head. The embryos rapidly shift into fetuses, into infants, and then into two fully grown mechs—not a Charlie and a Queen, but with faces like the children those two models would have, if they could reproduce.

Now, it seems, they can.

“Organic engineering,” Gillian says. “Superstrong structures within made up not of metal but of organic compounds, manipulated to create material far more resilient than bone. Mental capacity that will allow for greater individuality of programming while maintaining the essential separation between human and machine. Self-repairing capacities that go beyond healing minor injuries, rendering the next generation of mechs nearly immortal. We’re calling them Inheritors: mechs that can carry on the best of what came before, while helping us realize our ambitions for the future. That’s what we believe we’ll be able to offer this galaxy—not decades from now, but within the next two to three years.”

Excited murmuring rises as the lights go up. Abel understands why. These people are anticipating not only better, more useful mechs, but also investment opportunities that will make them even wealthier than they already are. (He’s observed that human avarice almost always outstrips human need.)

His principal thought is different from theirs: Soon I’ll be obsolete.

In some ways. Not all. The new mechs will be limited mentally; they will not develop souls. Yet knowing any mechs, anywhere, will be more advanced than him in any way—it’s a new sensation, one Abel decides he doesn’t like.

He’d gleaned rumors of this, mostly through various bits of research chatter coming from Cray, in particular from Virginia Redbird. It was his curiosity about a potential new cybernetic line that brought him here. But he’d hoped the new mechs might be more like him. That they might be people rather than machines.

That he might no longer be alone.

Gillian says, “Organic mechs will be able to reproduce, thus reducing manufacturing costs.” Raising one eyebrow, she dryly adds, “Reproduction will be on command only, so no one need worry about any unwelcome surprises. And we’re pretty sure we can improve on nine months’ gestation time—something human mothers might be jealous of.”

As the crowd chuckles, Abel imagines the possibilities. The thought of a pregnant mech, carrying something that is more device than child—something intended only for servitude—revolts him profoundly. A human might call the reaction “primal.” All Abel knows is that he cannot abide the thought of it.

Gillian seems disquieted as well, her eyes downcast, but her tone is even as she continues describing her creations. “They’ll be cheaper to create and therefore to own. They’ll retain all the advantages of mech labor while removing the disadvantages. Tonight, I hope to speak with each of you personally about our research, and about the potential that lies ahead for our company, for your participation in our next great endeavor, and for the betterment of our entire society—all through the creation of the most sophisticated mech ever.”

Abel feels like this title belongs to him still, but mentioning him would undoubtedly upset the flow of her sales pitch.

“My father’s vision has transformed this galaxy once.” Gillian’s blue eyes have taken on the intensity of a gas flame. “His legacy has the potential to be greater still. Mansfield Cybernetics intends to lead the way not only in mech engineering, but also through a revolutionary vision of the future that promises to expand the capacities of humanity itself. With your help, we can transform the galaxy again… together.”

The loudest applause of the night breaks out as she steps off the dais and nods at the Oboes, who all resume their song on the very note where they left off. None of the Oboe mechs show the slightest reaction to this revelation. They’re not programmed with enough intelligence to care.

Abel, however, will be thinking about Gillian’s speech for a long time. It did not fulfill his hopes of finding another mech like him, but it is nonetheless significant—

His visual field of focus shifts upon identifying a threat: Gillian Shearer, who is staring straight at him.

Her look lasts only 0.338 seconds, not long enough to immediately betray him but more than long enough to create an unacceptable level of risk. Abel doesn’t even glance backward as he turns to go.

He weaves through the crowd, moving against the tide of those pressing forward to get nearer to Gillian so they can hear more about this vision of the future she’s offered. Walking speed must be calculated to balance the value of haste versus the cost of drawing attention.

His calculations must have been incorrect, however, because through the din he catches Gillian’s voice. “That man—the blond one—he looks familiar, can you get—”

Abel ducks into one of the cloudy side passages that lead to bathrooms and food-preparation areas, finds a bathroom that’s empty, and locks the door behind him. Then he kneels down and punches through the transparent floor.

The sound and spray of the waves roar into the room as he rips out a segment approximately forty by forty centimeters and jumps into the ocean.

Water closes around him, shockingly cold. He strokes and kicks through blue-black seaweed and tiny silvery eels, fighting the current, grateful for his unerring sense of direction and the ability to hold his breath longer than any human could.

They will find the damage to the floor in no less than three minutes, no more than ten. If Gillian fully recognized me, she will already have sent a signal to the security mechs on land. If she only suspects my identity or is unsure due to inferior human memory, she won’t send the signal until the damage is discovered. In the latter case, he has a chance to make it to the Persephone’s hangar. If the former—

He resolves to handle this negative outcome only upon its occurrence.

As soon as Abel’s foot makes first contact with the shifting sand near the coast, he digs in, stops swimming, and starts running. Dashing straight out of the waves, he sees guests at a nighttime beach party skittering backward, laughing as a wild man bursts out of the waves to run past them. Sand sticks to his shoes and sopping-wet clothes, but it doesn’t slow him down.

No point in restricting himself to human speed once he’s off the beach. He accelerates past that within 1.3 seconds and aims directly for the hangar. With one hand he taps the dataread as he runs. “Harriet, Zayan, do you read me?”

“Abel!” Zayan’s voice comes through instantly. “Another couple minutes and we’d have been worried.”

“Worry now,” Abel says. “Also start the engines now. Get ready for takeoff as fast as you can.”

Harriet yells, “We told you not to—”

“Scold me after preparing the ship to fly.” He makes a quick time estimate of his possible capture as he runs beneath an elevated rail into a small, scrubby park. Every moment the sky grows darker as night becomes real. “If I’m not on the ship in ten minutes, leave without me, and the Persephone is yours.”

“Oh, God, Abel, what did you do?” She’s become more terrified than angry.

“Nothing, actually, but the authorities won’t believe that. Go.”

By the time he reaches the hangar 6.1 minutes later, his hair and clothes are almost dry from the sheer speed of his run. Abel doesn’t slow down as he heads toward the doorway to their docking bay, except for once when he sees a crowbar lying unattended near an old Vagabond junker. Stooping to grab it only costs him 1.3 seconds, and besides, if he’s going to run into resistance—

Approaching the door, Abel grabs the jamb and swings around the entrance, slamming the crowbar straight into the head of the waiting Queen, who was of course concealed in the spot on the other side of the wall her programming would’ve targeted as most strategically likely. She falls like the inert machinery she has become, and Abel tosses the crowbar back before covering the final distance to the Persephone. Its silver teardrop shape seems to shine in the dark bay. When the door spirals open for him, he’s finally back home.

“Immediate departure is advisable,” he calls, trusting the comm system to be on. Sure enough, the mag engines instantly fire and his ship takes flight. Whatever signal Gillian sent didn’t trigger a planet-wide alarm, or at least she didn’t know to target the Persephone specifically, because he feels the ship escape planetary gravity without resistance.

When he walks onto the bridge, Harriet calls over her shoulder, “Have you gone completely mad?”

“I’m no more mad than I ever was,” Abel replies.

This wins him a scowl from Harriet. “That’s not as encouraging as you think it is.”

Noemi’s voice echoes in Abel’s mind. You’re really bad at comforting people—

“Doesn’t look like we’ve got company coming,” Zayan announces. “Our path to the Earth Gate to Stronghold checks out as clear.” Gillian must not have fully recognized Abel after all—only saw him as an intruder, someone to check out at the nearest spaceport, not someone to chase down and entrap no matter what.

But she easily could have. In another fraction of a second, she would have. Abel had let his curiosity override his good judgment; in so doing, he endangered not only himself but also his crew. This is unacceptable. He must be more cautious in the future.

“What, are you wet? Did someone try to drown you?” Harriet demands.

“I’m much too good a swimmer to drown.” Abel doesn’t expect this correction to improve her mood; sure enough, her scowl only deepens. “I’m back, Harriet. Isn’t that enough?”

“Of course it is.” She glances back at him, her long braids falling past her shoulder as she does so. Both she and Zayan wear traditional Vagabond garb, loose flowing shirts and pants in vibrant patchwork colors. On the stark black-and-silver bridge of the Persephone, the young couple seem as brilliant as butterflies. “We worry. That’s all.”

Zayan laughs. “Yeah, we’d never find another boss who pays as well as you do.”

A possibility occurs to Abel that had not presented itself before—an inexplicable flaw in his logic. “You could’ve taken off without me. The audio record of my last transmission would’ve allowed you to make a legal claim to the Persephone.”

“We’d never do that to you,” Zayan protests. “C’mon, Abel. Don’t you know that?”

Harriet looks at him again, but this time her eyes are less angry, more troubled. “Have you really never had a friend before, that you could think something like that? Besides Noemi, I mean.”

“No. I haven’t.” Abel isn’t sure he wants this conversation to continue. “I should change my clothes.”

Although he’s aware of his crew members staring at him while he heads off the bridge, neither tries to stop him.

Neither Harriet nor Zayan knows why their captain doesn’t fear drowning. Why he uses a constant series of fake IDs and stays out of range of security mechs as much as possible. They’re loyal enough not to ask. They are, as Harriet just said, not merely employees but friends.

Would they do things differently if they realized Abel wasn’t human? That he was not only a mech but the special project of the revered Burton Mansfield himself?

If they knew that Mansfield wanted Abel back because Abel’s cybernetic body is the only one designed to contain a human mind—Mansfield’s mind, which can save the old man from his impending death—would they trade Abel’s life for Mansfield’s?

Those questions disturb Abel sometimes, but he prefers never to know the answers.

As far as he knows, only one human has ever valued a mech’s life as equal to that of any other person. She’s on the other side of the Genesis Gate—far away from him, forever.

What would Noemi Vidal say about the organic mechs? Abel feels certain her fascination would match his own.

His mood darkens as he imagines the future of this technology: mechs becoming more and more humanlike. Someday, surely, a soul will awaken within one of them—but Mansfield learns from his mistakes. The next mech with a soul will be bound by programming so strong it will make Directive One seem like a mere suggestion.

We will no longer be individuals, Abel thinks, counting himself among these unmade brothers and sisters already. We will no longer be free.

We will be slaves.