It’s as though Abel can see it, this horrible thing that may not even happen: the explosion ripping through Noemi, tearing through her skin and bone.
Continue moving, he tells himself. Dwelling on negative possibilities won’t help Noemi.
As they edge their way through the semidark corridors, weapons at the ready, Riko quietly asks, “So you talked to Ephraim?”
“Yes. I reasoned he was the person most likely to be of help to Genesis at that time.”
Riko drops her eyes. “And he seemed—Ephraim was all right?”
“He indicated nothing to the contrary.” Abel reviews his memory files. The expressions on Ephraim’s and Riko’s faces when speaking of each other do not match anticipated reactions for former colleagues, or even friends. He tests this hypothesis by adding, “Ephraim seemed unhappy when he spoke of your departure.”
Riko’s cheeks flush, and Abel has his answer. She must see recognition on his face, because she quickly says, “It didn’t last long. It couldn’t have lasted long. Probably it shouldn’t have happened at all.”
“The two of you are very nearly polar opposites,” Abel says. “When we all parted on Earth, I was under the strong impression you didn’t even like each other.”
This wins him a sidelong glance from Riko. “Noemi’s a soldier from Genesis. You’re a mech from Earth. I bet you guys didn’t hit it off at first either.”
Abel and Noemi met while trying to kill each other. “Your point is well taken.”
“I’m just glad he’s all right. That’s all.” Riko winces and rubs her temple. “Thinking about this is giving me a headache.”
Loud clattering around the curve of the corridor alerts Abel only a fraction of a second before the humans hear it, too. As he rounds the corner, Abel brings up his blaster—
And stops. The damaged mechs before him aren’t combat models. Williams are musical performers; Sugars are cooks. Obviously they aren’t part of the passengers’ attack team, but then what are they do—
The Sugar’s fist connects with Abel’s gut before his sensors have fully registered the motion. He slams into the wall, hard, his blaster falling to clatter at his feet; he’s thrown off as much by surprise as by the force of the blow.
Stunned, he attempts to collect himself. How is a Sugar in warrior mode? She shouldn’t be programmed for that.
But now the William’s on him, barreling toward Abel at full speed. This time Abel manages to duck out of the way, but his confusion has intensified. Non-warrior mechs should not fight beyond very basic defense of humans—hardly more than a push or a shove—but the Sugar has picked up a heavy metal bar from the debris and seems intent on beating Abel to bolts.
She swings. Abel catches the bar in his open palm, ignoring the impact that sends pain shooting from his wrist to his shoulder. He closes his fist around the bar and pulls it backward, hard; the Sugar doesn’t let go, which means he slams her into the ceiling. Her body drops to the floor, twitching erratically. Only now does he see that the entire back half of her head is missing.
The William charges again, and Abel swings the bar around to strike him in the hip, collapsing the joint; as the William model falls, he bashes its head. It drops beside the Sugar, completely still.
“Is that all they’ve got?” says one of the Remedy fighters, with so much bravado he seems to believe he was part of this fight. “If those are the only mechs the passengers can send after us, they’re down to nothing.”
“Perhaps.” Abel frowns as he rises from the destroyed Sugar and William and reclaims his blaster. “But the larger group of mechs still lies ahead.”
According to Abel’s instrumentation, the mech patrol is very close, but still on the other side of the nearby theater, perhaps two levels down. He hurries faster through the corridor, motioning for the others to follow.
One quick jump brings him to the level of the stage door, which he’s able to pry open with both hands. Abel slides through the narrow opening into near-total darkness; only a few emergency lights at the very bottom of the theater shine at all. He adjusts his visual frequencies to assess the area. The stage itself hangs above him, a gaping space with its old-fashioned velvet curtains drooping beneath. While theater seats remain in mostly neat rows at his head level, underneath the tiers of balconies curve across each level, an image reminiscent of a nautilus shell. The acoustic curve of the theater’s ceiling has become a bowl-like floor many meters down.
As Abel prepares an estimate of the exact distance, he hears the banging of a door, and a thud—like someone dropping from that overhead door onto one of the lowest balconies. More noise follows, footsteps multiplying upon one another: The mech patrol has infiltrated the theater. Soon they’ll attempt to punch through to Remedy territory.
Instead, Abel intends to punch through them—and clear his way to Noemi.
Without waiting for the other Remedy members to climb through the door, he pulls his blaster, magnifies his targets, and begins to fire.
A Tare model, head badly damaged, somehow operational as it rounds the curve of the balcony: One shot from his blaster and it goes down in a spray of sparks and blood.
A Charlie, completely intact but unarmed, running with great speed and direction—but not toward a door: Abel fires, takes that one down, too.
“What’s going on?” Riko demands from her place below.
“I have no more data than you do.”
“Is that robot for ‘how would I know’?”
“No, although that question is entirely valid.” Abel focuses his main attention on the jumble of mechs in the darkness beneath, whose movements make no sense but are too controlled to be random.
They’re not yet trying to get through to Remedy territory. These mechs have some other target.
Keeping his blaster ready, he swings the
