This cannot be accurate across the planet, he surmises. The toxicity rates must be specific to this locality, through a mechanism as yet undetermined. Otherwise humans would never have attempted to settle this world. No doubt he just flew over one rare, uninhabitable area, one that begs for further study.
Abel intends to study it, later. His focus must remain on the Osiris, and on what and who he may find within.
He lands the corsair roughly two kilometers from the crash, behind the crest of a hill. Although he’d like Noemi to know he’s coming for her, very few on board will welcome his presence. Remedy attackers won’t be pleased to see him; Burton Mansfield would be—only because he could then attempt to capture his prize creation. Abel must remain undetected as long as possible. He puts on his white hyperwarm parka, holsters his blaster at the belt, and sets out just as sunset begins to darken the sky.
The terrain’s rougher going in this area, with multiple boulders and dangerous scree hidden by the snow. The Osiris lies on the edge of a large plateau, near a sharp drop-off—and now that Abel can study the surface up close, he realizes deep crevasses may lurk underneath, hidden by the snow. So he slows his movements, examining every element of the path ahead.
The site crash is very near this planet’s equator, which means twilight falls swiftly. The sky above becomes luminous with five visible moons, casting enough reflected light to glitter on the snow. He extrapolates orbits from his observations in the Persephone and realizes no fewer than three moons will be visible at all times, every night of the year. Nighttime is rarely very dark here.
Convenient, perhaps, for future settlers—but for Abel, it only increases his chances of being detected.
He stays low, following the terrain. When he reaches the ship itself, he reassesses its condition. Equipment will have been badly damaged, or may be unusable simply because it’s affixed to what was once the floor and is now the ceiling. That will include hospital equipment, biobeds, anywhere an elderly man might be expected to rest.
Abel finds one air lock just above the line of the snow. He tries the automatic entry, but that’s broken. So he presses in with all his strength until he’s bent the seal itself, which allows him to painstakingly pull back the door. The effort is enough to tire even him. Once he’s cleared enough room for him to squeeze through, he does so, adjusting his vision to the darkness within. The floor beneath his feet slopes sharply to the right, and is curved like the ceiling it used to be. Fortunately his sense of balance is not so easily undermined.
No intruder alarms go off. As he heads for the inner door, he reasons that any alarms may no longer be operational. This area of the ship would’ve been near main engineering, which is now completely nonfunctional and therefore unlikely to be a priority for Remedy. He may yet get in undetected. The panel to open the door out of the air lock, inverted, is high enough that he has to jump for it, but at least it works. Once it’s open, stale air flows in and he eases out—
—to see a small huddle of people at the end of the corridor, each one armed and pointing straight at him.
Abel pulls back 0.17 seconds before the blaster bolts would’ve hit him. His weapon in his hand, he gauges whether to run out of the air lock and try a different entrance—but no, they’ll be on the lookout for him now. Instead he fires, not intending to kill anyone, but he aims close enough for them to know he could.
Someone shouts, “You heard Captain Fouda! All passengers are to surrender immediately!”
So these are Remedy members. “I’m not a passenger,” he calls back.
Another person yells, “You’re not one of us!”
“I never said I was. But I’m not a passenger either.”
A pause follows. Their confusion is rational enough, Abel decides. But how should he best present his case to them? If they’re warring against the passengers, as seems likely, they won’t think well of his coming here to save one.
A third voice calls, “Identify yourself!”
And somehow, this voice is one he knows.
17
NOEMI WINCES AS SHE TURNS HER NECK FROM SIDE TO side, but it doesn’t feel like it’s been injured. Only sore. The cut on her temple’s not too deep either. She drops to the floor (once the ceiling), her silvery boots crunching against metal shavings and bits of debris. “Is everyone okay?”
For the most part it seems that they are. Delphine, like several other passengers, is crying and sporting a few cuts and bruises to rival Noemi’s. Most of them cling to the tank frameworks like raindrops on a spider’s web, shaken but not seriously hurt. Mansfield lies in his chair, which is tilted against one wall; he looks like a marionette with cut strings, his limbs slightly akimbo and no strength in his form, but he’s breathing. The fields around the tanks kept them all alive.
The bridge probably had emergency field protection, too. Most of the rest of the ship won’t have, though. Noemi says, “Some Remedy members probably died in that crash. Maybe lots of them. So they’re weakened. If we can pull ourselves together and get back out there—”
“Pull ourselves together?” Vinh sounds almost hysterical. “After what just happened? Are you heartless?”
“I just mean—this is probably our best chance.” Noemi double-checks her blaster. Her hands are still trembling, but she suspects she can shoot straight. “Remedy has to be as messed up as we are. Maybe we can catch them off their guard.”
A low, mournful cry startles her, as well as the others. The sound is coming from the once-unshakable Gillian Shearer, whose cheeks shine with tears. She’s trying to climb up to one
