Now, it seems, they can.
“Organic engineering,” Gillian says. “Superstrong structures within made up not of metal but of organic compounds, manipulated to create material far more resilient than bone. Mental capacity that will allow for greater individuality of programming while maintaining the essential separation between human and machine. Self-repairing capacities that go beyond healing minor injuries, rendering the next generation of mechs nearly immortal. We’re calling them Inheritors: mechs that can carry on the best of what came before, while helping us realize our ambitions for the future. That’s what we believe we’ll be able to offer this galaxy—not decades from now, but within the next two to three years.”
Excited murmuring rises as the lights go up. Abel understands why. These people are anticipating not only better, more useful mechs, but also investment opportunities that will make them even wealthier than they already are. (He’s observed that human avarice almost always outstrips human need.)
His principal thought is different from theirs: Soon I’ll be obsolete.
In some ways. Not all. The new mechs will be limited mentally; they will not develop souls. Yet knowing any mechs, anywhere, will be more advanced than him in any way—it’s a new sensation, one Abel decides he doesn’t like.
He’d gleaned rumors of this, mostly through various bits of research chatter coming from Cray, in particular from Virginia Redbird. It was his curiosity about a potential new cybernetic line that brought him here. But he’d hoped the new mechs might be more like him. That they might be people rather than machines.
That he might no longer be alone.
Gillian says, “Organic mechs will be able to reproduce, thus reducing manufacturing costs.” Raising one eyebrow, she dryly adds, “Reproduction will be on command only, so no one need worry about any unwelcome surprises. And we’re pretty sure we can improve on nine months’ gestation time—something human mothers might be jealous of.”
As the crowd chuckles, Abel imagines the possibilities. The thought of a pregnant mech, carrying something that is more device than child—something intended only for servitude—revolts him profoundly. A human might call the reaction “primal.” All Abel knows is that he cannot abide the thought of it.
Gillian seems disquieted as well, her eyes downcast, but her tone is even as she continues describing her creations. “They’ll be cheaper to create and therefore to own. They’ll retain all the advantages of mech labor while removing the disadvantages. Tonight, I hope to speak with each of you personally about our research, and about the potential that lies ahead for our company, for your participation in our next great endeavor, and for the betterment of our entire society—all through the creation of the most sophisticated mech ever.”
Abel feels like this title belongs to him still, but mentioning him would undoubtedly upset the flow of her sales pitch.
“My father’s vision has transformed this galaxy once.” Gillian’s blue eyes have taken on the intensity of a gas flame. “His legacy has the potential to be greater still. Mansfield Cybernetics intends to lead the way not only in mech engineering, but also through a revolutionary vision of the future that promises to expand the capacities of humanity itself. With your help, we can transform the galaxy again… together.”
The loudest applause of the night breaks out as she steps off the dais and nods at the Oboes, who all resume their song on the very note where they left off. None of the Oboe mechs show the slightest reaction to this revelation. They’re not programmed with enough intelligence to care.
Abel, however, will be thinking about Gillian’s speech for a long time. It did not fulfill his hopes of finding another mech like him, but it is nonetheless significant—
His visual field of focus shifts upon identifying a threat: Gillian Shearer, who is staring straight at him.
Her look lasts only 0.338 seconds, not long enough to immediately betray him but more than long enough to create an unacceptable level of risk. Abel doesn’t even glance backward as he turns to go.
He weaves through the crowd, moving against the tide of those pressing forward to get nearer to Gillian so they can hear more about this vision of the future she’s offered. Walking speed must be calculated to balance the value of haste versus the cost of drawing attention.
His calculations must have been incorrect, however, because through the din he catches Gillian’s voice. “That man—the blond one—he looks familiar, can you get—”
Abel ducks into one of the cloudy side passages that lead to bathrooms and food-preparation areas, finds a bathroom that’s empty, and locks the door behind him. Then he kneels down and punches through the transparent floor.
The sound and spray of the waves roar into the room as he rips out a segment approximately forty by forty centimeters and jumps into the ocean.
Water closes around him, shockingly cold. He strokes and kicks through blue-black seaweed and tiny silvery eels, fighting the current, grateful for his unerring sense of direction and the ability to hold his breath longer than any human could.
They will find the damage to the floor in no less than three minutes, no more than ten. If Gillian fully recognized me, she will already have sent a signal to the security mechs on land. If she only suspects my identity or is unsure due to inferior human memory, she won’t send the signal until the damage is discovered. In the latter case, he has a chance to make it to the Persephone’s hangar. If the former—
He resolves to handle this negative outcome only upon its occurrence.
As soon as Abel’s foot makes first contact with the shifting sand near the coast, he digs in, stops swimming,
