They dash across the jagged edge of this broken ship, snow blowing through their hair, the deep fatal drop less than a meter to their left. Abel’s sharp vision and quick analysis allows him to identify the areas they’re running through—a broken-up Turkish bath, devastated living quarters, an upside-down pool—the other half of each mirrored on the opposite side of the ravine. When they run past a transparent wall separating two rooms, a Tare on the other side throws herself against it with such speed and force a human would be knocked unconscious. Noemi has the fortitude to keep going without even glancing sideways.
Abel does not. The Tare claws at the transparent material; there’s no way she could break it, but a Tare model isn’t programmed with that information, and Simon neither knows nor cares.
And it is Simon doing this. He cannot deny that.
“Come back!” the Tare shrieks, her voice saying Simon’s words. “Come back!”
The plea wrenches Abel to the core, but he can’t take the risk. He has to keep running.
They reach the framework he’d seen before, the one that provides a way for them to crawl to the top of the ship. Noemi pauses, panting and clutching at her arm. She must still be feeling intense pain from those cuts, but she says only, “Can we climb it before they get to us?”
“Possibly.” Abel readies himself. “But I can climb one-handed and shoot at the same time.”
“Bet I can shoot and climb, too, if it comes to it.” However, her focus remains above. She turns up her face to the moonlight and starts to climb. Abel follows her, dividing his attention between Noemi’s progress (will her injured arm continue to support her?) and the area below them (in case more of Simon’s “toys” pursue).
Their ascent doesn’t move as quickly as Abel would like. Noemi is undoubtedly wise to pace herself, conserving her lesser human strength, but he can’t forget that Simon or his mechs could reappear at any minute, wanting to play a very deadly game.
Perhaps I can still communicate effectively with him, Abel thinks. Once controlling the other mechs has lost its novelty, Simon will wish for other forms of amusement. I could structure the learning he needs as a series of puzzles he might find enjoyable. He doesn’t intend to give up on the boy yet.
But how is Simon controlling the other mechs?
A far-off glint of light at the edges of Abel’s peripheral vision draws his attention just in time for him to refocus and see the blaster in a broken Charlie’s hand, pointed straight at them.
“Noemi!” he shouts. She responds intelligently by hugging the metal framework, hard.
Charlies have intelligence, too. The blaster bolt is aimed not at them, but at the very top of the framework they’re climbing, and he hits his target. Abel feels the metal shudder, then tilt backward.
“Abel—” Noemi clutches the frame tighter. “We’re falling!”
He can do no more than watch as the framework gives way, toppling into the crevasse in the ship’s wreckage, taking him and Noemi down with it.
25
THEY FALL BACKWARD, GAINING SPEED. NOEMI CAN ONLY clutch the metal that’s clearly not doing a damn thing to keep her from tumbling down into the open maw of the crashed ship. She winces, preparing herself for the worst—
—and the framework stops hard. The reverberation through the metal carries into her bones, and the jolt of it nearly makes her lose her grip, but she manages to hang on. Her blaster tumbles down, a brief flash of moonlight on metal before it vanishes.
What just happened? She looks around as best she can and realizes the metal framework is still connected to the ship by various cables and one twisted but unbroken beam. It sways precariously, suggesting that connection won’t hold much longer. The framework’s fallen from being parallel to the sides of the ship to perpendicular—stretched across the deep gash, but not nearly long enough to reach to the other side.
“Noemi!” Abel calls. He must be moving closer to her, because the entire framework trembles; she hugs it tighter and tries to ignore her aching muscles. “Are you all right?”
“I didn’t fall, if that’s what you mean. But this is not all right. Not even close!”
Don’t look down, she tells herself. Just go hand over hand back to that side of the ship. Like the monkey bars!
She’s always hated monkey bars.
Abel reaches her side, which would be reassuring if it weren’t for the buck and sway of the metal frame with every move either of them makes. One extra-violent dip makes Noemi break her own rule and look down; immediately she wishes she hadn’t. The bottom of this gash in the ship lies too far below; the crevasse in the wreckage looks like a deep canyon through stone, except more ragged, uglier, deadlier. She stares into the jumble of sharp wreckage and snow beneath her, knowing at any second she might become part of it. And if they fall, she wants to be holding on to Abel. Maybe then she could bear the feeling of air rushing around them. Maybe she could endure the cold, and the terror. It will just be hanging on to Abel until the obliterating end.
“I doubt Simon’s mechs will pursue us here,” Abel says. “His control lacks the finesse necessary for bringing any of them across.”
“You’re wrong.” At any other time, she’d be proud of finally getting one step ahead of Abel. Now she just wants to throw up. “He won’t send any of the big mechs, but the—the severed things, the hands and arms—he could send those.”
It would only take one mechanized fist slamming down on her knuckles to send her falling to her death.
“True.”
“You could fire on them, though. Give us cover. You’re strong enough to hold on with one hand, aren’t you? So you could still fire your blaster.”
“Of course I’m strong enough to hold on with one hand.” He sounds almost offended. “However, my blaster, like yours,
