Mansfield’s breath catches in his throat. “Abel?”
“I’m here, Father,” Abel says. “Not because of Directive One. I was led here by the part of me that remembered when you showed me Casablanca for the first time, and explained Captain Renault’s jokes. When you took me out into the garden to trace the constellations. And how happy you were the first time I told you I could dream. Noemi calls this my soul. Whatever it is, it’s the part of me that proved you a genius—the part that proved you could create artificial intelligence that was the equal of any human. Yet it’s the part of me you have no use for.”
Mansfield opens his mouth to reply, but he can’t. His breathing has become shallow and erratic. It takes all of Abel’s willpower not to magnify the section of the holoscreen where he might read the small machines that measure pulse and respiration. Such details would confirm nothing Abel doesn’t already know.
This is the hour of Burton Mansfield’s death. Very nearly the minute.
Gillian has begun to weep. Although Abel expects her to keep pleading for their father’s life, she instead starts working with some of the equipment piled near. One unfamiliar element draws his eye—a small, glowing octahedron in the shape of a diamond. With a trembling hand, Gillian inserts it into the machine connected to her father by the diodes stuck to his forehead.
Abel knows what this means, but there’s no point in acknowledging it. He has very little time to speak, and must say the most important thing first. “I love you, Father. You don’t love me, which seems as though it should change my own feelings, but it doesn’t. I love you anyway.” His eyes blur. This is only the second time Abel has ever cried. “I can’t help it.”
Noemi leans her head against his back. It comforts him as much as anything could in this moment. That’s not much.
Mansfield coughs. Maybe he’s trying to speak; maybe it’s a spasm, no more. But even that minor exertion is too much. A deep rattle in his chest fills Abel with dread; he’s never heard that sound before but he knows what it means. Gillian takes her father’s hand, but Mansfield doesn’t look at her. His rheumy eyes stare at the screen. At Abel. He’s the one Mansfield wants with him, not the weeping daughter by his side.
This is what greed does to humans, Abel thinks. It makes them ignore the love they have in favor of what they can never attain.
The rattle chokes off. Mansfield exhales, and doesn’t breathe in again. His wide-open eyes are no longer looking at Abel or at anything. Although there is no rational reason for it, his body appears smaller and more frail.
Burton Mansfield is dead.
With her one uninjured arm, Noemi hugs Abel tightly from behind. He covers her hand with his, taking what comfort he can from her touch. But he can only stare at the father who never loved him, unable to turn to the girl who does.
He’d always thought that Mansfield’s death would liberate him from Directive One and so would feel like being set free. It doesn’t feel like that at all. What Abel felt—and feels—for his father will always matter. That’s a burden he’ll carry as long as he exists.
Gillian doesn’t break down in tears. Instead she lifts the small diamond-shaped data solid in her palms, cradling it reverently in front of her chest. It emits a soft white glow that lights her face from below, which makes her look almost like another person. “He’s not gone,” she says thickly. “I’ve saved him here. And I will save him completely. Soon.” She casts her blue gaze up at Abel, newly intense in both grief and fury.
“You can’t do that without capturing me,” Abel says. His voice sounds almost normal, which surprises him. It seems as though he ought to have been changed in some fundamental way, though of course there’s no logical reason for this. “And you are in no position to capture me.”
“I will be.” Gillian doesn’t say it in defiance. She’s certain. She shouldn’t be. There is more to her threat, an element he doesn’t understand but must discover. “I’ve already brought a soul over once. I can do it again.”
Noemi steps from behind Abel. “Simon’s not—I’m sorry, Gillian. I did look for him. I kept our bargain. But when we found him, he—he’s turned angry, and strange—”
“If you want me to work with Simon,” Abel interjects, “I will.” When Noemi glances over at him in evident dismay, he decides they must discuss this again in the near future. “Whatever difficulties you’ve faced in your son’s transfer, I should be able to put them right.”
Gillian shakes her head. “I don’t need your pity, Abel. I need you. And within one more Haven day, I’ll have you.”
The holoscreen blinks out, and the antechamber goes dark.
In the wake of his creator’s death he should feel safer than he has in a long time. He doesn’t. Instead he feels damaged in a way he doesn’t know how to repair. Mansfield might’ve known how to fix it, but Abel can no longer ask him.
The first repair he conducts is Noemi’s arm; she, in turn, helps reseal his synthetic skin. Together they wipe away their blood as they sit in a small passageway off the bridge, one that Remedy is using as a kind of crew quarters. Several of their fighters are resting there, apparently exhausted from the days of this siege. Noemi must be tired, too, but she’s more worried about Abel than about herself, which seems wrong to him. She is the priority.
“Are you okay?” she murmurs as they sit on the floor, side by side, her hand wrapped around his. The white bandages around her arm contrast sharply with the relative darkness around them.
“I can continue to function.”
“That’s not
