It doesn’t matter if nobody else knows what she really is. She knows it. That’s enough.
The cruiser passes through the silver sparkle of a force field and settles onto the deck. When the cockpit pops open, scented air rushes in, thick and seductive as perfume.
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
