18

ON THE PERSEPHONE BRIDGE, SENSORS GLARE ORANGE. Abel swiftly checks energy readouts, locates the rapidly increasing radiation levels, and realizes what’s happening to the Damocles, even before Noemi’s voice comes over the speakers: “We’re in trouble.”

He does the calculations in 0.041 seconds. “I’m on my way.”

“Abel, no! You’ll only get yourself—”

Static swallows the sounds of her voice, a by-product of the radiation emanating from the Damocles. He’ll pretend he never heard it, if she tries to protest after he’s rescued her and her party.

Because he is rescuing them.

Although he can’t determine the precise time of detonation, an estimate can be posited based on the rate of radiation increase and a likely overload point for a vessel of this size. He doubts they have more than four minutes before the Damocles destroys itself, and a shuttle isn’t capable of flying out of range in that amount of time. There’s no chance for any more elaborate retrieval mission; the most dangerous option is the only one with any chance of working.

He fires the engines, aims for the heart of the Damocles, and accelerates.

Exactly how he’ll rescue Noemi and the others remains a mystery to him. Mansfield programmed Abel with a wealth of material on topics both critical and arcane, but not with the specs for a Damocles. That information was too closely guarded a secret. He can extrapolate—volume divided by estimated number of mechs transported—but he won’t know anything certain until he can see for himself, which by then will be within two minutes of detonation.

But Noemi has been programmed, too, in a way. In the past they’ve agreed that if his Directive One is to protect and obey Burton Mansfield, hers is to protect and obey her homeworld as a soldier of Genesis. She’s been trained in military procedure since she was no more than a child; that knowledge is a part of her.

Every rule of military procedure for a space emergency declares: Stay with your ship or get back to it as fast as you can.

He doesn’t know what the Damocles may do, but he knows what she’ll do as surely as though he’d programmed her himself.

Abel focuses on the controls as the Persephone zooms toward the open hatches of the Damocles, piloting into the center of one of these darkly iridescent disruptor fields. It shimmers as he passes through, no more than glints of light at the edges of his vision. He fully dilates his pupils to get the best look at the inside—

—the glassy stares of warrior mechs meet him, feline and unnerving—

—but he disregards that input as soon as he sights the shuttle. The Krall Consortium crew members may not be as rigorously trained as Noemi, but they know enough to scramble back inside their spacecraft. But it takes even well-trained spacefarers a while to maneuver in zero-G. Only a couple of meters above the shuttle are Noemi and Virginia, using exosuit thrusters to return to the ship as well. It won’t take them very long, but any delay wastes time they don’t have.

At least there appears to be no docking mechanism at work, he thinks. Detaching from such a mechanism would take seconds if not minutes. Instead, the shuttle is free to move. This is one of his only sources of encouragement, so he concentrates strongly on it.

Abel’s personal security/preservation programming urgently signals for him to depart; this information is worthy only of immediate deletion.

Instead, he brings the Persephone around in one large loop, one that gives Noemi the 4.1 seconds she needs to drop through the shuttle’s hatch, Virginia at her side. He doesn’t wait for the shuttle to be sealed, just accelerates toward it and activates the tractor beam.

The small bump he feels when his ship attaches the shuttle generates relief—more than it should, given that he’s still in the heart of a Damocles that’s going to explode in roughly 29.15 seconds. (His estimate is improving as he monitors radiation gain.) It’s not much of a chance for them, but he’ll take it.

Abel grabs the shuttle with the Persephone’s tractor beams, reeling it in closer than safety protocols suggest as he accelerates away. They hurtle into deep space again, coincidentally straight toward the Katara, but he doesn’t slow down. He has 41.48 seconds to avoid a crash with the Katara, and only 3.5 to avoid imminent destruction.

At the last tenth of a second, he reroutes extra power to the shields, then spins his ship so that it’s between the Damocles and the shuttle. He snaps off the viewscreen—more effective than closing his eyes, and he’ll still be able to monitor sensors.

The only thing those sensors can tell him is whether he’s going to live or die, information he’s destined to find out one way or another… and yet he must watch.

He imagines Burton Mansfield saying, So human.

The domed viewscreen blinks off, draping the bridge in darkness. Abel sees the sensors flare from orange to red and braces himself in his captain’s chair. The Persephone starts to shake violently, and he feels dozens of thuds of debris against the hull. If they punch through the surface, air pressure will be lost, and he’ll be sucked into space to freeze.

(There were times he contemplated that, during his three decades trapped in the equipment pod bay. His programming doesn’t allow for suicide except in response to certain directives, but it also ensures he’s not afraid of death. So he had always been calm and curious as he wondered whether it would be better to die swiftly in the paralyzing cold, or be alone in the dark for another two or three centuries. As he never came to a final conclusion, he remained in the docking bay, reasoning that he could choose to exit the Persephone and end his life at any time, but once he’d done so, there would’ve been no turning back.)

He won’t find out today. Although damage indicators light up the command consoles, none of that damage is critical. The shuttle is therefore all but guaranteed to be unharmed—but he doesn’t trust his understanding of probabilities, sometimes, when it comes to Noemi. Instead, he brings the viewscreen back up and switches to rear cameras to see the shuttle for himself. Its hull remains completely intact.

As he watches, Noemi pushes herself up through the top hatch, zooming upward in space for only as long as it takes her to activate her exosuit’s thrusters, which send her soaring back to the Persephone. Back to Abel.

Back home, he thinks.

Abel initiates the repair operations the ship can perform itself, then hurries down to the docking bay to welcome Noemi home—and Virginia, who appears to be only slightly behind her. (Krall’s team takes their craft back to the Katara, which is somewhat disappointing for Abel; he’s never had true guests before. But this is unimportant.) By the time he arrives, the air lock is already cycling. The moment the door releases, he opens it to see both Noemi and Virginia taking off their exosuit helmets. “Welcome back,” he says.

Noemi steps through the door first, apparently unruffled. When she sees Abel, she grins. “Nice catch.”

“I knew where you’d be.”

Abel means it only as a statement of fact, but she gives him the kind of smile often described as melting. Only now does he realize the idiom refers not to the smile, but to the emotion inside the one who sees it. “You always do,” Noemi says. “And I knew you’d be there. I knew I’d be with you again.” She embraces him—only briefly, but it makes him long to kiss her again. Not once, but over and over, the way they did when they were cuddled together in the bunk.

Soon, maybe.

Virginia looks more shaken, but she’s already thinking of next steps. “So, Damocles destroyed means we’re okay—”

“For now,” Noemi interjects. “But we need to get this engine to Genesis forces right away. Every minute we wait is another minute Earth might send forces against us, or worse, recognize the Bellum Sanctum strategy.”

“Hey, just had a potentially disturbing thought, as is my wont.” Virginia sits down heavily and begins removing her boots. “Are we sure Dagmar’s telling us the truth about Bellum Sanctum? Or did she just send us to pick up a big engine for her?”

“It would be tactically unwise and unlikely for the Krall Consortium to lie about the Bellum Sanctum only to obtain this engine,” he says. “A machine of such size and power has few uses, none of which would be valuable in ordinary Vagabond work.”

“Besides, they wouldn’t even have known about the ‘Bellum Sanctum’ plan if they weren’t working pretty closely with Genesis leaders,” Noemi says. “So now we send this engine on its way to Genesis, and we find out how this war ends.”

Three hours later, while the ship’s systems run through another set of diagnostics to confirm their repairs, Abel sits alone in the docking bay.

Almost alone, he should say. He is kept company by the Smasher, which sits on the floor, patiently allowing him to tinker with its AI. Its awareness is, of course, only a fragment of what a normal mech’s would be, much less a human’s or Abel’s own, but there’s enough there for the work to feel… companionable.

Gillian Shearer had imperfectly installed Tether technology within Abel. Therefore, he’d decided to try installing that tech within the Smasher, to see if he could figure out where she’d gone wrong—the better to activate Tether abilities for himself. (Having escaped Gillian’s clutches for good, he sees no reason not to update.) The flaw in her installation turned out to be minor—more an activation problem than anything else—which means he’s already fully outfitted both the Smasher and himself.

So now he’s indulging his curiosity, tinkering to see how much he might be able to develop the intelligence of lower-level robots. Currently he’s installing significant enhancements to the Smasher’s memory. To the best of Abel’s knowledge, no one has ever done this before.

That’s because there is no need for an intelligent Smasher. But Abel considers curiosity to be adequate motivation.

Besides, he’s waiting for a visitor to the ship—one who announced herself twenty-nine minutes, point oh three seconds ago. Abel finds himself intrigued by the novelty. At last, a guest.

When the docking signal finally comes, he swiftly wraps his tools and leaves the bay just in time for the air lock to cycle and allow a transit pod to come inside. As it cycles back, pumping in atmosphere and restoring gravity, he counts the seconds until the door slides open again.

Standing in the center of the docking bay is Dagmar Krall. Her blond hair is now braided back from her face, and her clothes have returned to Vagabond gaudiness—a rich red tunic and gold pants that seem to be made of silk. The confidence radiating from her and the unwavering focus of those large eyes give her the ineffable quality humans call presence. No one would be surprised to learn she’s the most powerful Consortium leader in the galaxy.

“Welcome to the Persephone, Commodore Krall,” Abel says.

“Thanks.” Her smile is warmer when she’s not in her command chair. She seems almost relaxed. “I’ve been curious about this little ship.”

“I would be pleased to offer you a tour.” He used to give tours back in the early days, when this was Mansfield’s ship. It will be more enjoyable to lead the tour as its captain.

“Sounds great. But first, I was hoping to speak with you privately, Abel.” Her smile seems unexpectedly friendly. “About… an opportunity.”

Intriguing. “What do you mean?”

“We’re working with Genesis now,” she says. “That alliance will hold until the war is won and my people who want homes on that planet have them. While some Genesis operatives have begun moving throughout the larger galaxy—”

“They have?” Abel wonders what kind of an intelligence service Genesis could possibly have, after three decades of isolation. They’ll have to learn fast.

Krall nods. “I hear they’ve even sent a couple agents to Haven. But most of what Genesis needs done in the galaxy at large, the Consortium is sworn to do. Still—that won’t last forever. We’re going to win this war. With Bellum Sanctum about to deploy, it looks like we’re going to win soon. The question is, what happens afterward?”

“I believe,” Abel says, “that you’re finally approaching the point.”

“You’re one of a kind,” Krall replies, beginning to pace around him. “Not that I have to tell you that, but it bears repeating. You’re the only mech of your kind, and your capabilities—the things you’ve done in this fight, in the Battle of Genesis—well, it’s impressive.”

Abel nods in acknowledgment. There is no need to thank her, since she is merely stating fact.

She continues circling him. “I’ve seen you turn the tide of battle twice now. You seem like a good man to have around. You’re useful, Abel. That’s more than you can say for most people. And it means you could do better than small-scale trading.”

“Small-scale trading has proved reasonably successful for me so far.” Abel doesn’t intend to brag, but Harriet and Zayan have assured him that their profit margins are considerably larger than those of the average Vagabond vessel.

Krall bows her head, conceding the point. “I’d imagine you’re doing as well as any single trader can out here. But you could do even better if you had more resources. More intel, from more corners of the galaxy. If you had allies sworn to help and defend you no matter what.”

The conclusion finally presents itself to Abel. “You’re recruiting the Persephone for the Krall Consortium.”

“Think about it.” Krall spreads her hands as though laying a banquet before him. “You’d get bigger jobs. Have backup and security. Partners get a cut of every deal. Your ship’s smaller than I’d usually require for a captain to be a full partner, but in this case, the Persephone’s not the main asset I’m trying to bring into our fleet. It’s you yourself. We’d have your crew in for specialized training—”

“I appreciate the offer.” It is, in fact, the most flattering thing Abel’s heard in a while. “However, I doubt we would work well together long-term.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Forgive me, Commodore Krall—”

“Call me Dagmar.”

“Forgive me, Dagmar,” Abel continues without missing a beat. “But you are—in a manner of speaking—a pirate.”

She laughs long and loud. “Yes, I break the laws. So do you. When Earth’s the one defining what’s right and what’s wrong, sometimes it’s better to be ‘wrong.’ We’ve both made that call plenty of times, haven’t we?”

That is… a rational stance for her to take.

Maybe sensing his curiosity, Krall adds, “You have to consider the opportunities, too. Genesis may win its independence soon. That means trade, and the new trade routes won’t solely be under Earth’s control. On top of that, the galaxy’s expanding! Haven won’t be isolated for long, and—” She pauses, as if wondering whether to trust him with this. More quietly, she says, “Like we were discussing back on Stronghold, the military presence in Kismet is higher than that for any of the other colony worlds.”

“Yes, though it’s curiously far from Kismet itself.”

“Very curious,” Krall agrees. “So some of my scouts looked around. It turns out that at the edge of this system, tucked away in the orbit of a planetoid in the very center of this military presence, is an object under construction.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “That object has only just become recognizable as another Gate.”

Abel is as capable of being amazed as any human, it appears, because it takes him a full 0.72 seconds to speak. “A Gate to another secret world?” How many planets did Earth’s elite intend to hide from the populace at large?

“Actually, I think this is on the up-and-up,” Krall says. “There are signs Earth’s rushing the construction, trying to get it ready double-quick. If they could announce another planet, one as good as Haven or better, it would go a long way toward defusing the public anger.”

“But they won’t know whether the planet is viable for human settlement until after the Gate’s complete and the system’s been explored in depth.” Gates are built when long-range scanners find a world that shows promise—but thanks to the amount of time it takes light to traverse the galaxy, scans can only tell how a planet looked thousands if not millions of years ago. That’s more than enough time for a sun to go supernova, for an enormous asteroid to crash onto the planet and wreck its ecosystem for geologic ages to come, and for any other number of catastrophes that would turn a potential home for humanity into just one more lifeless, useless rock.

“Exactly,” Krall says. “So they’re building that Gate in one hell of a hurry. At this rate, it looks like it won’t be more than another year or so before it’s fully operational. That’s when the rest of the galaxy finds out about this. But my Consortium knows about it now, and that gives us a significant advantage. Whoever controls Kismet in the years to come is going to wield considerable power. With all these worlds coming together, and Earth probably losing absolute power—you see the possibilities, right?”

Abel does. He also understands the parts she didn’t say, only implied.

“The only planet that should control Kismet,” he says slowly, “is Kismet itself.”

Impatiently, Krall waves her hand. “Well, of course. But we’d be working with Kismet, and Genesis as well, once the war is won. Colony worlds and Vagabonds would be leading the way at last. Isn’t it about time?”

Perhaps she means well. Probably. The kind of person who enjoys the free life of a Vagabond usually isn’t the kind who wants to impose a military dictatorship. But Krall is clearly unwilling to think about the full implications of this power. Her plan is all about knocking Earth down and making money in the chaos that is sure to follow.

Abel wants to plan beyond that. What shape will the galaxy take? How will the worlds work together, instead of merely following Earth’s commands? Krall is interested in the wreck of a civilization; he’s interested in the rebuilding of one.

“You’ll undoubtedly do well with this plan,” he says. “But Consortium life’s not for me.”

“You want your independence,” Krall says with a nod, and it’s surprising how disappointed she looks. Abel’s flattered to think she was so interested.

His path, however, must be one of his own choosing… and he means for it to follow Noemi’s path, wherever she may lead.