A set of calculations he’s been running for several hours now requires discussion. “Haven’s existence has the potential to affect the Liberty War.”
“It could change everything.” Noemi has apparently done the same calculations, and her human imagination has taken them further. “Yeah, Haven’s cold—but it’s habitable, and it’s beautiful. Millions of people could live here. Millions, maybe even billions! If there’s another home for humanity, and the galaxy knows it? They don’t have to conquer Genesis. We could even take in people then, freely—whoever chooses our way of life—oh, Abel, this could be the answer to everything.”
He wants to caution her that absolutely nothing can be the answer to everything. Earth has to have hidden this planet for a reason, one he has been unable to extrapolate. Also, if there are more pockets of toxicity like the one he flew over on his way here, that means some areas of Haven won’t support human life.
But then Noemi hugs him again, and these sensible objections are sorted as irrelevant. He wants to store every sensation, every emotion, every millisecond. Despite all the tragedy and terror around them, he’s been reunited with the girl he loves, and nothing can fully diminish the wonder of that.
Abel is of course aware that Noemi doesn’t love him, at least not in the same way he loves her. This, too, is irrelevant. As he understands it, love is not transactional; it is a thing freely given. The joy is in the giving.
(Many human forms of entertainment seem to misrepresent this, but their information is of course inferior to actual experience, and so he disregards them.)
His absorption in her is interrupted by the sound of rustling overhead, within the damaged, twisted metal above. Noemi hears it, too, and they take a step back from each other as they look up.
To Abel’s immense relief, the small figure peering down through the wreckage is Simon. He remains alive, and has even managed to find clothing. This shows attention to normal human social cues, no doubt a sign that Simon’s soul is adapting to its new body. His… nephew can still be saved.
“Noemi,” he says, “this is—”
“I know who it is.” Her entire body has tensed. When their eyes meet, she whispers, “I realize what this means for you, but Simon—I think there’s something wrong.”
She has reacted too strongly to Simon’s unfinished appearance. Humans are sometimes overly influenced by visual stimuli. Abel takes her hand, intending to comfort her and facilitate a conversation between her and Simon.
But then Simon giggles, a high-pitched, off-kilter sound. “Peekaboo,” he says. “Peekaboo!”
This alone should tell Abel nothing. But he has human instinct now, and that instinct is telling him Noemi may not be entirely incorrect.
He doesn’t yet know what Simon is, only that Simon is not as he should be.
21
NOEMI’S STOMACH TWISTS WITH FEAR AS SIMON DROPS through the wreckage down to them. Above her she hears more rustling; when she looks up she sees a disembodied mech hand crawling along the ceiling like a spider. Simon’s still playing with his toys.
Abel is oblivious. The sheer wonder of finding another mech like himself must’ve overwhelmed all his rational instincts. He holds one hand out toward Simon. “It sounds like you two have met,” Abel says. “We’re friends, just like you and I are friends.”
“She’s not my friend. I don’t like her.” Simon sounds like the playground bully. She wonders if that’s the kind of kid he was, or if it’s the kind he remembers hiding from. There’s no telling how he behaved or what he experienced during his life as a little boy. What remains is neither human nor mech—and while Abel brought together the best of those worlds, Simon may be bringing together the worst.
You’re just freaking out because of his—toys, she tells herself. Maybe we can set things right. Abel can if anyone can.
But she keeps her eyes on the hand crawling closer along the wall.
Meanwhile, Abel’s smiling. “Noemi can be rude and abrasive at first meeting. You just have to get to know her.”
“Abel,” she says. The word comes out breathy and hushed; it’s like the sight of Abel near this thing has stolen her strength. “Obviously you’ve met Simon, but I don’t know if you understand who he is—”
“He’s Gillian’s son and Mansfield’s grandson.”
Noemi blinks. “Okay. The thing is, Gillian wants him back, and Mansfield wants him deactivated.”
Abel turns back to her, and the expression on his face shocks her to the core. She hadn’t known he could feel true rage. “Deactivated?”
Maybe just this once Burton Mansfield has a point? But no. She can’t give up on Simon so easily. “He’s doing strange things with the broken mechs. It’s like he’s—controlling them.”
“They’re my toys,” says Simon. He tilts his head the way a curious dog might. The effect is much less endearing. “She doesn’t like my toys. Noemi blows them up.”
Abel brightens, like this is somehow a positive turn in the conversation. “My friend’s temper is highly variable. But I’ve learned her kindness is the truer part of her character. She understands that mechs like us aren’t merely mechs. That we’re something more. Not so very different from other people—”
“I’m not like other people.” Simon stumbles back. He’s still awkward in his new body. “Other people don’t have all this yelling in their heads. I want it to stop. Why won’t it stop?”
“What you’re perceiving as ‘yelling’ is probably your databanks giving you raw information.” Abel’s smile could break Noemi’s heart. He wants so badly to think that Simon is like him. “I can help you learn how to prioritize memory bank input versus current sensory intake. I mean—I can teach you to change the yelling to whispers. Then you won’t mind listening.”
“Abel,” she
