Abel leans his head against her shoulder. “No. But it will do.” He’s been sad before, but has never been comforted like this. Simply being cared for has a kind of emotional power he’d never suspected. “We should discuss our long-term strategy.”
Her hand gently squeezes his, demonstrating that she knows he needs this as both a plan and a distraction. “First we need a short-term strategy.”
“This is an excellent point.”
“If Gillian Shearer’s coming after you…” Her voice trails off and she shakes her head. “They don’t have the firepower or the strategy to take down Remedy, and they act like they’re happy to wait for servant mechs to come and find them someday, which would’ve happened by now if it were happening at all. So you’re safe.”
“They have an advantage we haven’t determined yet. Or Gillian believes that they do. Even if she’s in error, soon the passengers will act. They’ll try to retake the ship in an attempt to recapture me.”
She hesitates. “What you said about Simon—you meant that?”
“Of course. I have to help him if I can.”
“Are you sure you can?” Noemi bites her lower lip, then blurts out, “I know what he means to you, Abel. He’s closer to being like you than anything or anyone else ever has been. But… you have to have seen he’s not right.”
“I see that he’s new, and the product of an untried process. A child’s consciousness was a poor choice for an initial transfer, particularly under such chaotic conditions. But he represents a step forward in mech evolution. He’s the first Inheritor.” When Noemi frowns, he explains, “So Gillian called them. Mechs with greater organic components—and, it would seem, the capacity to house a soul.”
Noemi must have witnessed enough to realize some of the rest for herself. “From their base here, they were going to make all these mechs—mechs they could transfer human souls into—” Anger flickers across her face. “He would’ve made more mechs with souls. It wasn’t enough that he had to imprison you in a mech’s body forever. He wanted to do it over and over again—thousands, millions of times—”
“I don’t understand,” Abel says. “Imprison me?”
“It was wrong of Mansfield to give you a human soul and a mech body, with programming that forced you to obey him.”
“You mentioned this once, but I didn’t realize you meant it so literally.” The strangeness of this strikes him; it’s as though she’s been speaking another language entirely, one he failed to translate in time. “Noemi—yes, I’m angry at Mansfield for some of his programming. But how can I be angry that he created me? He didn’t imprison my soul. He brought it into being.”
“But”—she struggles for words, and finds the wrong ones—“it just seems so unfair, that you have to live like this.”
“What other way could I live? Mansfield could hardly have given me a choice of whether to be mech or human. My nature combines elements of both. Being a mech is part of my soul, of who I am. I don’t want to change it. Do you think I should want to?”
“You mean you don’t want to be human?”
“What would be the point of wishing for the impossible? Besides, I’m faster than humans. Smarter. More durable. I make use of all my capacities and even enjoy them. Why would I want to reject them?”
“That’s not what I meant,” she protests. “I only know Mansfield shouldn’t have done that to you.”
“He shouldn’t have made me in the first place?”
“Stop twisting my words around!”
“I’m not.” Abel looks at her the way he did the first day they met, when they were still enemies bound together only by her desperate need and a quirk in his programming. She hated him then. He didn’t like her either. “You pity me, simply for being. You saved me and spared me because you recognized the value of my soul, but you still don’t believe my life is as valid as yours.”
“That’s not true.” She puts her hands on either side of his face. Her skin is rough and abraded, her nails broken down. Blood from her self-inflicted injury still mars her fingernails. The contrast between the proof of her struggle on this ship and the tenderness in her eyes takes the heat from his anger. He’s acutely aware of the presence of at least a dozen Remedy fighters sleeping nearby; surely they should be out behaving like soldiers, not present for a moment this intimate between him and Noemi. “Abel, you’ve talked about how alone you are. How you don’t have anyone else in the galaxy like you. Was it right of Mansfield to do that to you?”
“No. But if Simon can be saved—if the organic mechs can prove sophisticated enough to possess souls—I won’t be alone for long.”
Noemi winces, as if in pain. “Will you just ask yourself if maybe you want this too much?”
Will you question your own prejudices, Noemi? Can you not try to see him as a little boy in need of help? The words are there, waiting to be spoken, but Abel doesn’t say them. He doesn’t want to argue with Noemi—not when they’re in such danger, and he can’t blame her for being afraid. The pain of Mansfield’s death is fresh for him, startlingly powerful, with dimensions Abel knows he’s only begun to map. Noemi’s presence is his only comfort. He doesn’t want to push her away, not ever but especially not now.
But she is so horribly wrong.
Footsteps in the hallway make them both turn toward the sound. Noemi lowers her hands from Abel’s face as two Remedy members enter on either side of Riko, supporting her on each arm. She looks even paler than before and is hardly able to walk.
“What’s going on?” Noemi goes to Riko’s side.
One of the Remedy soldiers says, “Another sick one.” He rubs his forehead, telegraphing his own discomfort. “Somebody must’ve caught the flu before we started on this mission. Just our luck.”
Abel turns back to the sleeping
