Abby hummed softly to herself. It wasn’t any tune she knew but rather one she was developing. The minor key melody suited the dreary mood of the prison theater and might form the kernel of a showtune for an eventual stage adaptation.
She shook her head slightly, laughing silently at her own pretension. Abby wasn’t even certain of escaping this standoff with her life. She’d strung Ned along, and he’d shown a remarkable reluctance to short-circuit the negotiations. The motion of her neck hurt but less than it ought to have.
Abby suspected that someone had been dosing her food with anti-inflammatory drugs.
The clop of hard-soled boots, combined with the particular gait she’d come to recognize, signaled the approach of the Chain Breakers’ leader.
“You talk to them,” Ned said, taking Abby’s hand and pressing a portable into it. “Tell them what you promised me.”
With a sigh, Abby obliged. “Send the native Martian children back, Dana. Of all the items on the list of demands, that one seems easiest.”
“We can’t just ship children around the solar system like commodities,” Dana protested. “They’re children.”
“Get signed permission from the parents. Of the hostages in here, Dawn Cafferty and Fatima Sharif both consent. You handle the rest.”
“That consent is under duress.”
“It’s all under duress,” Abby replied. “We’re still doing it.” She fumbled around until she found the spot on the touch screen to shut off the call.
Ned took back custody of the portable. “She’s got another hour.”
“And then you’ll start murdering people,” Abby added.
“Not people,” Ned said. “Robots.” Then he stalked away.
Alan was by her side a moment later. He knelt; she could tell from the rustling of fabric and creak of the chair next to hers. Alan whispered. “We all appreciate what you’re doing, taking his attention off the rest of us.”
“He doesn’t dare harm me, at least not until he’s gotten his use out of me.”
“Harm you?” Alan scoffed. “Look at you.”
Abby pawed around until she was able to pat Alan’s cheek. “Looking isn’t my strong suit at the moment.” With a grunt of pain, she turned her sightless eyes to face him. “When I’m gone, I’m counting on you to take over occupying him.”
“You think he’s going to release you to get medical attention?”
“No. I’m probably going to die in this third-rate theater that can’t even adapt The First Girl on Earth properly.”
“Don’t say that!” he whispered harshly. She imagined him scowling around at the other hostages to make sure none of them overheard.
Abby scoffed. “I saw it on recording. Miscast Eve badly. It’s objectively a bad play they put on.”
“You know what I mean. You’re not dying in here.”
“It’s an artist’s duty to speak the truth, uncomfortable truths most of all. I’ll hold out as long as I can, but things are grinding and gnashing that shouldn’t be, and I’ve got old organs pulling extra duty they’re not used to. The physical strain is, frankly, exhausting. How do you young people get through a full day without cybernetics?”
“You’re evading the point,” Alan said. “Tell Ned you need a doctor, a mechanic, anything. I refuse to sit by and watch you die when I know there are people just outside who can save you.”
Abby found Alan’s cheek again with her hand. “Good boy. You go tell him that. It’ll be good practice.”
Alan hesitated. “You need to tell him.”
“Quite a conundrum. Either you learn to deal with Ned Lund—a small, scared, stubborn man with a tiger held by the tail—or you wait until I pass on right here in the cheap seats.”
“We’re in the third row,” Alan pointed out. “We technically have great seats.”
“Sweetie, when you can’t see the stage, there’s no such thing as a good seat.” She laughed at her own joke until a fit of coughing forced her to stop. Spikes of pain driven down her neck, back, and legs had a way of quelling mirth.
Alan kept his thoughts to himself after that. Abby knew he was nearby from the sound of his breathing. She felt around until she found his hand and gave it a squeeze.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out of here.”
“You got Kaylee out. That’s what matters.”