Before Abel can stop him, Simon runs out again, escaping deep into the wilds of this crashed ship.
To pursue or not to pursue? Abel must remain here. Riko’s the only member of Remedy who is loyal to him at this point; if he goes running through the Osiris without her, other members are likely to fire on him. He badly wants to help Simon, but he can’t do that by being destroyed or disabled.
Abel will set things right with Simon, but that has to wait.
Instead he goes to Riko’s side, where a brief examination reveals she isn’t injured beyond being winded and stunned. But as he checks her over, part of his brain plays another thought on infinite loop: I am not alone. I am no longer alone.
Captain Rushdi Fouda of the Remedy fighters has only an honorary title. Within 3.2 minutes of meeting the man, Abel has determined that Fouda’s never been in military service. He enjoys the idea of command more than the reality—and surely whatever preconceived idea Fouda had of leadership looked nothing like this: control over only isolated pockets of a crashed ship on an unfamiliar world. The Osiris might as well be a city under siege, with certain streets and neighborhoods barely held, others destroyed, others hostile.
Nor is Fouda eager to welcome a mech into his ranks.
“It’s like I told you, Abel’s no ordinary mech,” Riko insists. She puts one hand to her forehead for a moment, wincing.
Although Abel determined she suffered no traumatic brain injury from Simon’s attack, she’s nonetheless had a headache for roughly the past eight minutes. It occurs to him to wonder about the toxicity zone he flew through on the way to the Osiris; exposure to such elements would certainly harm humans in short order, and a headache could be the first symptom. However, given that everyone else seems fine, Abel surmises that the dangerous zone is far enough away, and that the air filtration aboard the Osiris must still be functioning as adequate protection against any effects at distant proximity.
Riko continues, “Abel rescued me and Ephraim Dunaway from prison.”
“Dunaway,” Fouda sneers. He is a wiry man, sinews showing through leathery skin. Faint lines tracing a pale pattern along his face and neck. “One of the moderates. Your good friend.”
“We tried to find common ground, yeah.” Riko’s cheeks flush with anger. “The point is, Abel got us both out.”
“He’s a mech.” Fouda gestures at Abel the way he might indicate some mess that needs cleaning up. “In the end, that means Burton Mansfield controls him.”
“He does not,” Abel says. This point is one he must make himself. “Mansfield has tried very hard to recapture me, and has failed. I came here to investigate him, and to search for my friend Noemi Vidal, who may have been brought here as his prisoner.”
Riko interjects, “Noemi’s the Genesis fighter I told you all about! We can’t pass up the chance to have an ally from Genesis.”
Would Noemi be so quick to join up with Remedy, especially after this? Fortunately this is not a question Abel has to answer. To Fouda he says, “All I ask is a chance to look for her, perhaps also to search for whatever data Burton Mansfield may have cached on board.” And to check on Mansfield—though that’s something he prefers not to admit even to himself.
Fouda huffs. “You came here with demands, then! Well, we have demands of our own first.”
“That’s reasonable.” Abel stands in military at-ease position, calculating that this will influence Fouda to believe him obedient. He will obey if it doesn’t conflict with his core programming; he can readily assist in restoring power, for instance. Getting the information he needs—finding Noemi—is worth some labor. However, it is not worth slaughtering innocents.
But Fouda says, “We’ll start small. See if we can trust you.” When Abel inclines his head—again, like a subordinate—Fouda calms even more. “The passengers are pretending to be soldiers. They’ve set up force fields, blocking us from some areas of the ship. That’s how they hide from us. We don’t intend to let them hide any longer. A mech like you—you’d be effective against them, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.” Given sufficient firepower, Abel could outfight large numbers of humans, but elects not to mention this. Fouda should not have that information before he decides whether to give Abel a weapon.
“Fine.” Fouda nods at him. “Let me show you what we’re up against.”
He leads Abel down a side corridor, toward what must have been a separate operations room. Their entire path is lined with mech bodies.
Dozens of them. Possibly hundreds. Some have literally been smashed to pieces—an arm here, a torso there—making an exact count difficult. Abel prefers not to try. Mechs bleed as humans do, and the scent of the air has that metallic tang to it. Some blood spatters the walls and has puddled on the concave ceilings-turned-floors. Internal coolant fluid pools there, too, milky-white streaks amid the red; it doesn’t mix with blood.
“We couldn’t leave them for Mansfield to turn against us,” Fouda says. He’s not apologizing for this; he’s proud of it. “The Charlies and Queens went down hard. The rest? Easy.”
“I should imagine so. They weren’t combat models.” A Nan lies at Abel’s feet, her scorched face staring up blankly at him. Nans nurse children and the elderly.
“What, do you feel bad for your fellow machines?” Fouda mocks him.
“No.” He doesn’t. Abel knows better than any human the vast gap between regular mech minds and his own capacity. They don’t have selves; the bodies on the floor weren’t alive in the way he is. “But I find it interesting to evaluate how humans treat those who present no threat to them.”
Fouda isn’t pleased enough with this answer to continue the conversation.
Only one display in the ops room still functions, but it reveals the layout of the
