“I think your Bible might say differently.”
She blinks, taken aback. The entire shape of this question has just changed for her—like the drawing in which a vase suddenly becomes two faces. Every existence is finite; why should one have less value than another?
A creator’s intent matters, she thinks, but this is something she needs to consider in depth.
Gently, Abel continues, “You’re still thinking of mechs as living to serve humans. As… secondary. This is a natural assumption, since as of now I am one of only two mechs who lead an independent existence.” He turns his face toward the crevasse of wreckage and she knows he’s wondering about Simon within that ship, half-formed, afraid and angry. “But it doesn’t always have to be that way. Consider the potential.”
“I will,” Noemi promises. “But will you do something for me?”
“Of course.”
“Please consider the possibility that something’s not right with Simon. I know you feel for him. I do, too. When I spoke to him the first time, I imagined it was you if you were brand-new, and nobody had ever explained to you what you were. But Gillian rushed the process, and she used a little kid who didn’t understand. It went wrong in a way I’m not sure you can put right. Simon’s ‘games’ nearly killed us. They still could. I’m just afraid that—that you want a brother so badly you’ll ignore all the warning signs until it’s too late.”
In the long pause that follows, Noemi curses herself for every word, until Abel finally says, “You may be right. Not about the Inheritors, but about Simon. He’s… unstable.” Admitting that cost Abel. She hugs him around his waist, offering what little comfort she can, as he continues, “When I was speaking to him through his mechs, I mentioned his mother. I thought he would naturally want to return to her. But Simon felt nothing. He no longer loved her. I know that if I could no longer feel love, I would be irretrievably broken. Simon may be as well. I can’t abandon him until I’m sure—but I intend to investigate. And I’ll be more cautious in the future.”
“Okay. That’s all I ask.”
When Abel speaks again, his words come more slowly. “The regeneration cycle is about to begin.”
“Do you dream while you’re regenerating? Or only while you’re asleep?”
“I’ve never dreamed during a regeneration cycle before,” he says groggily. “But there’s no reason I couldn’t, eventually.”
Hugging him again, she says, “Then have good dreams.”
Abel shifts, as if he’s going to turn and look at her, but then his head droops onto the floor and his body goes slack. Regeneration has begun.
Noemi’s wired from their narrow escape, and a debris-strewn tank in below-freezing temperatures isn’t exactly the most comfortable place she’s ever tried to sleep. But she’s so exhausted that she thinks she’ll be able to grab an hour or two once the adrenaline wears off. Maybe she can try to have some sweet dreams of her own.
As long as Abel’s with her, she feels safe. Which at the moment is a total illusion, but she’ll take what she can get.
She rests her forehead against his back again, content to feel the in-and-out of his breath—slower than a human’s would be, even in sleep, but still comforting. This small comfort feels precious to her. Beautiful, and rare.
Noemi’s never questioned what she felt for Abel. By the time he told her he loved her, they had less than one hour left to be together. In the months since, she’s often wondered about the nature of his love, whether it was the same as a human’s. But there had been no point in asking what she might feel in return. It had seemed so obvious that they could never meet again.
Holding him now, though—the sense of longing and need even while he’s in her arms—well, it makes her think.
In her memory she hears what Abel said to her months ago, as they parted at the Genesis Gate: It hurts more to lose you than it did to give up my own life. Does that mean what I feel isn’t only a copy? That I do love you?
She answered, I think maybe it does.
That seems even truer to her now than it did then.
She closes her eyes and hugs Abel more tightly. Just for now, she’s going to pretend there’s nothing wrong. That there’s nothing else in all the worlds but the two of them, together.
26
THE AWARENESS THAT THE REGENERATION CYCLE HAS ended doesn’t feel exactly like waking up, but it’s close. Abel opens his eyes to near-complete darkness; only a few of Haven’s moons are visible at this time of night, and they must be smaller, more distant ones. He adjusts his vision as best as possible, then rotates his wrist. Although some stiffness remains, its condition is adequate for their immediate needs. The ankle feels almost entirely normal.
Next to him, Noemi sleeps soundly, her breathing deep and even. Her arm remains stretched around his waist, although her hand has gone slack. Abel allows himself a few moments to enjoy her nearness, and covers her hand with his own. Hopefully this is not inappropriate. She stirs gently, snuggling against his back in her sleep, and he discovers that love can be a physical sensation, a kind of melting warmth through his chest.
Even if she doesn’t love him in return, this feeling is reward enough on its own.
But he can’t afford to let such thoughts distract him from their imminent need to escape. He adjusts input so he can listen to the widest possible range of frequencies. His hearing isn’t exponentially better than a human’s, but the extra sharpness
