“We’re almost out of here.” She hops onto a broken ledge, swings herself over, and pauses for him to follow. “As soon as we find a ship, we’re free.”
“We have to tell Gillian what happened.” Why does he still feel obligated to that family? Why do their feelings still matter to him? “She needs to know about the cleared path, but above all, I have to tell her about Simon.”
He can’t let her wait for her son in vain.
“We have to tell her what happened once we’re safely off the Osiris,” Noemi says. “Otherwise, she’s going to come after you with everything she’s got.”
He doubts Gillian has much in the way of an attack force, but at this point it wouldn’t take much to subdue him. Although Noemi’s held up better—astonishing for a human—she, too, is showing signs of weariness. Immediate escape is by far the best course of action.
The docking bay looks more like a child’s jumbled toy box than an organized dock for spacecraft. While force fields held some of the smaller craft in place during the crash, most of the ships broke free. The piles of wreckage stand as much as six meters high in some areas. Abel muses that any human in the docking bay during the crash was surely killed.
“Well.” Noemi sighs. “Looks like we’re going to have to hitch one last ride from Mansfield.”
His gaze follows her gesture to a white semi-spherical ship in one corner that’s nearly untouched. “It looks like something he would’ve liked,” Abel says quietly.
She notices his reaction—his grief for his father/creator—but only caresses his hand for a moment before becoming businesslike again. “He owes us this one, I gue—”
“Simon says stay.”
Noemi jumps. Abel spins around to see a Queen model, largely stripped of skin and flesh beneath the waist. The illusion of semi-nudity is strangely off-putting, as are the Queen’s unfocused eyes. She stands amid one of the junk piles; in her damaged state, she blended in with it perfectly.
“Simon is gone,” Noemi says slowly, putting out one hand as if to shield them both. “He’s not here anymore.”
The Queen repeats, “Simon says stay.”
Abel runs through likely commands and possibilities. “His final instructions may well have been to keep us in one place until he could confront us in person.”
“And those instructions”—Noemi swallows hard—“nobody can cancel those but Simon, who is now dead and so not available to cancel anything ever again. Right?”
“Precisely.”
“Meaning we have a problem.”
From high above in the coils of fuel hoses and cells, a King shouts, “Simon says stay!”
“Affirmative,” Abel says. “We have a problem.”
Noemi shakes her head as though to clear it. “On my mark—run!”
He dashes toward Mansfield’s ship at top speed—his current top speed, which isn’t fast enough. Abel runs ahead of Noemi this time, because preparing the ship for takeoff is the single most effective way of protecting her. All around them, amid the clusters of scrap metal, mechs and pieces of mechs crawl forth, screeching and scrabbling, each one stripped of any purpose or function other than pursuing Abel and Noemi.
Abel feels a split second of revulsion—at mechs, at the very thing he is himself—but pushes it aside as he leaps into the ship.
Its plush interior certainly seems like the kind of luxury Mansfield would—would have insisted upon. While Abel checks fuel and power, Noemi dashes in and runs straight to the piloting controls. She slaps the control for the doors, which slide shut—
—partway, until the top half of a Yoke model wedges itself between them, one bloody arm still clawing uselessly at the air.
“Shake her off!” Noemi shouts to Abel as she fires up the engines. The ship lifts from the floor unevenly, hovering with a distinct wobble. “I’m gonna see if the automatic doors still work!”
“By flying directly at them?”
“Got a better idea?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
As the ship wheels around, gaining speed, he kicks at the Yoke to dislodge it. Yokes are built for strength, and this one doesn’t budge. The doors continue pressing in, but that only grips the Yoke more firmly. He cannot use his blaster without potentially damaging the ship.
Finally he pulls a chair from its stand and bashes the Yoke repeatedly until it falls away—just as he hears the scraping of the docking bay doors, and he and Noemi emerge from darkness into morning light. Fresh cold air whips through their vessel via the still-open doors, and Abel welcomes the chill. They have at last escaped the Osiris.
This would be a greater relief if the ship’s doors would shut.
“Come on,” Noemi mutters, punching at the controls again. “Come on.”
Abel grabs the ship’s doors and attempts to pull them shut, but the Yoke’s clawing damaged them. If the doors can’t be closed, the ship can’t leave Haven’s atmosphere, and he and Noemi will have to land and find the corsair. “Our escape may be flawed.”
“And it just got worse.” Noemi gestures at the screen, which shows a handful of battered ships leaving the docking bay, no doubt piloted by mechs still mindlessly doing Simon’s bidding. How long will these mechs hunt them? Days? Weeks? There’s no way to be sure how strong Simon’s commands are until they’re tested. Reaching the corsair with this many enemies in pursuit will be dangerous; it may be impossible.
Through the doors he catches a flash of red light. Noemi gasps, and he turns back to the screen. Another vessel has entered the atmosphere and is picking off the pursuing craft… not with weapons, but with mining lasers.
Grinning, he goes to the comm panel, activates the signal, and says, “Your timing is impeccable.”
“You’d better believe I’m forever captain for this!” Virginia yells back, and Noemi laughs out loud for joy.
29
NOEMI HOPS FROM MANSFIELD’S FRESHLY LANDED SHIP into thick white snow. The cold can’t touch her now. In the sky sparkles a familiar
