AS MANSFIELD’S CRUISER PULLS CLOSER TO THE behemoth ship Osiris, Noemi starts planning her escape.

I can’t overpower the mechs on board Mansfield’s craft in order to steal it, and even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to get away in this ship. They’re close enough now for her to see that dozens, maybe hundreds of mechs swarm around the Osiris and the surrounding area, swooping around the docking framework like vultures over prey. Once I’m on the Osiris, she decides, I can look for other chances.

The sore flesh around the poison ampule in her arm throbs with every heartbeat, reminding her that her captors have the power to kill her at any moment. But she knows they’re unlikely to try anything before Abel shows up, which she hopes will be never.

Abel’s helping Genesis, Noemi tells herself. The second she escapes from this ship, she intends to join him. Her world has so little time.

The cruiser’s comms buzz. “The Columbian Corporation welcomes you to the launch of the Osiris, the first stage of the most incredible journey in the history of humankind.” It’s obviously an automated signal, and Burton Mansfield scowls.

“We’re the largest investors,” he grumbles as Gillian helps him to his feet. “You’d think we’d merit a personal greeting.”

“We still don’t have a majority.” Gillian’s tone suggests she’s said this many times before. “Besides, does it matter?”

The question seems to irritate him. “Status always matters, my dear.” People from Earth have strange priorities.

But Gillian doesn’t think like her father. Her eyes take on the distant, fiery glow of holy purpose. “Soon they’ll know what we’ve really accomplished.” Noemi has no idea what the woman is talking about, but she’s certain it means nothing good.

“Docking instructions have been autocoded into your personal cruiser,” the message continues. “Upon your arrival, our team of mechs will take care of your every need. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the miracle that is about to unfold.”

“What the—” Noemi feels a slight tug as the Osiris begins towing them in. “Did they say ‘miracle’?”

“Hyperbole. I advised the other board members against that kind of language, but they outvoted me. But haven’t I performed miracles before, Miss Vidal?” Mansfield asks as he settles back onto his chaise.

Abel surely counts as miraculous, but that’s not only Mansfield’s genius at work. Something else happened within him to make him so much more than his creator.

To Mansfield she says only, “You’re no god.”

The Osiris looms larger before them, its ornate golden hull blotting out the stars. One of the mechs steps closer and fluffs Noemi’s hair, then spritzes her with something that smells of pear blossoms; it startles Noemi until she remembers that she’s being passed off as Mansfield’s invitee. As the golden well of the docking bay swallows their vessel, Noemi takes a few deep breaths and straightens. She’ll walk onto this ship not as a prisoner nor as a party guest, but as a soldier of Genesis.

It doesn’t matter if nobody else knows what she really is. She knows it. That’s enough.

The cruiser passes through the silver sparkle of a force field and settles onto the deck. When the cockpit pops open, scented air rushes in, thick and seductive as perfume.

A Zebra model comes up to them, holding out his hand. “Professor Mansfield, Dr. Shearer, welcome to the first stage of the great journey. Your suites are fully prepared.”

“I’ll want to see the labs,” Mansfield says. “Not right away, of course, but soon. Sometime before we get going. How long is that again?”

“We plan to set off as soon as Minister Cheng arrives in approximately ten hours.”

Mansfield and Gillian exchange a look of horror. Ten hours isn’t much time for Abel to catch up to them. Noemi ducks her head to hide her smile. He’ll never make it. Mansfield will never get his claws into Abel again.

Now if only I can get out of his claws myself—

The Zebra turns its attention to Noemi, though he speaks to Mansfield and Gillian. “May I inquire as to your guest?”

“Her name is Noemi Vidal,” Gillian says, taking Noemi’s arm as though they were on some kind of date, “and she’s to be kept away from any sensitive ship areas. Put together sensor checks that will alert us if she goes anywhere near a weapon or an air lock. And put her into one of the empty cabins, preferably the one closest to mine.”

Any human would immediately understand that those are nothing like the normal instructions for a “guest.” The Zebra nods politely, his smile unchanging. “Let us know if we can do anything for you before our departure, Miss Vidal.”

Noemi sees the chance and pounces on it. “Our departure to where, exactly?”

But Mansfield waggles one finger as his Tare model helps him into a low-hovering chair. “Don’t tell her a thing. I want it to be a surprise.”

If the Zebra’s programming allows him to recognize how weird this is, he gives no sign. “The prelaunch cocktail party is already in progress. I can escort you there now if you’d like.”

Inclining her head, Gillian says, “Please.” As they all set out, Noemi walks behind them, trying to figure out this charade. But each event is more surreal than the last. Her heart remains on Genesis, imagining all the pain there. Her body still trembles from the adrenaline of being taken hostage and of fearing for both her life and Abel’s. But her mind has to somehow gather the self-control for a… cocktail party.

Maybe the gas they pumped into my starfighter didn’t just knock me out, Noemi thinks. Maybe this is all one big hallucination.

The Zebra leads them from the docking bay. A Yoke hastens by with a tray of glasses filled with something fizzy; Mansfield shakes his head, but Gillian takes one, and Noemi figures she might as well, too. When she gains a swallow, she’s startled to realize it’s strongly alcoholic, but manages to get that mouthful down without coughing.

They walk through a corridor with carpets so thick they seem to caress her feet with every step. A faint gold shimmer lines the curving walls, and cobalt-blue sconces are shaped like scarab beetles. This doesn’t look like a spacecraft to her. It’s more like the way she always envisioned a palace. The air not only smells but feels pleasant; it takes Noemi a few seconds to realize that’s because there’s some humidity—not much, but more than the usual arid conditions aboard a spaceship.

Humidity wears out a ship. Damages the pipes. Noemi was trained to vent her starfighter and her suit after every flight, because too much water in the works will break it down faster than anything but an explosion. Whoever built a spaceship this extravagant and advanced has to know that.

Are the passengers too rich to care about using up this entire ship?

Finally the Zebra leads them to a tall set of arched doors, inlaid with enameled tiles. The Zebra steps back to allow their party through as the doors slide open to reveal a gold-plated room filled with a swirl of beautiful people—young and glamorous, dressed in sumptuous clothes—carrying their own glasses of bubbling wine. Honey-colored light filters through panels of what looks like real amber. As the partygoers laugh and chatter, they seem more than cheerful. The mood is closer to exuberance, delight, even elation. Mechs are everywhere, catering to each human whim: Two Oboes and a William play string instruments on the dais while Yokes offer fine wines and finger food that smells richer than any meal Noemi’s ever had.

When Mansfield and Gillian come through the doors, all the guests turn as one. Everyone smiles, and a few people even clap softly. A crowd begins to form around them, eager to personally greet the great cyberneticist and his famous scientist daughter. Seeing them so fawned over is more than Noemi can stand, so she edges away through the throng—still in the party, still obeying Gillian’s dictates. But now she’s able to take stock of her surroundings, plus do some quality eavesdropping.

Noemi pretends to be very interested in picking out a petit four from a Yoke’s tray while she focuses her attention on Gillian and the black-haired man talking with her.

“—feel sure you entirely agree that pushing up the launch schedule was unnecessary.” The man smiles, but it’s the fierce, teeth-bared smile of someone who expects to get his own way and hasn’t this time. “I hardly had time to pack my baggage, much less get it here!”

“Of course, Vinh,” Gillian says. She can sound pleasant when she tries. “Yes, if they’ve picked up ionization trails, maybe we have a few small ships scouting this location, but that’s no reason for panic. My father and I have our own vital reasons for wanting to delay the launch. This greatly interferes with his… medical treatment. But we don’t have veto power over this.”

Vinh’s anger is clear even without its target being in the room. “How dare they inconvenience you, two of the most illustrious passengers on this ship? Especially when your family has been through so much lately.” The side of Gillian’s face twitches; Noemi glimpses it and wonders what it means, but Vinh doesn’t even notice. “We should lodge a protest with the captain immediately. Your names on a petition would carry real weight.”

Hearing Abel’s murder described as Mansfield’s “medical treatment” is too much to take. Noemi takes another few steps back and begins weaving her way through the crowd, trying to get a sense of the room’s dimensions. She notices one tray in a Yoke’s hands: It’s filled with cheeses and breads, and also on the tray is a knife for trimming the cheeses to the guests’ demands.

It’s not much of a knife, but it has a pointed tip. Noemi could pierce skin and flesh with that. Later on this trip, she may need to. She can’t really steal it while dozens of people are looking on, but she makes a note for later: They’re careless. The only weapons they think about are blasters. They won’t be watching the cheese knives.

She keeps working her way around the room. As she goes, she jostles a girl a few years younger than she is—no, someone a few years older, an adult, although this woman’s not quite five feet tall and so thin that she looks more like a little kid. The woman’s champagne spills on Noemi’s jumpsuit. “Oops! So sorry! Let me get that,” she says, gesturing at a Dog to dab at Noemi’s clothes. “I’m Delphine Ondimba. I don’t think we ever met at one of the prelim retreats, did we?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What a beautiful outfit!” Delphine beams. “It sets off your figure wonderfully. I wish I could wear things like that—but when I do, I look even tinier than I am, and people start acting like I should still be playing with dolls.”

“You look great,” Noemi ventures, and she genuinely likes the look of Delphine’s flowing white silk caftan and heavily jeweled earrings. But she feels like she’s playing an elaborate game of dress up. More to the point, she’s not learning anything about this ship’s layout, which means she’s no closer to figuring out her escape. Time to keep moving. To Delphine she says, “I’m sure we’ll run into each other later.”

It’s a mundane brush-off, which is why Noemi’s so surprised when Delphine breaks into peals of laughter. “‘Run into each other’! Yes, I bet we will, at some point in the next fifty years or so.”

Fifty years?

Noemi opens her mouth to ask—then goes silent as the ship shudders beneath her feet. The entire party changes mood in an instant as smiles melt to frowns. All the musician mechs stop on precisely the same beat. “Well, what in the worlds is that?” Delphine says. “Are we taking off already?”

“My last shipment hasn’t arrived!” Furiously Vinh stomps toward a side door, which slides open to reveal a large plasma window that shows the starfield around them. “If they’ve moved the launch even closer, I’m going to demand a full—”

Brilliant green light flares through the window, blinding everyone in the room, and the entire ship rocks so violently that most of the passengers fall to the floor. Noemi manages to stay on her feet, barely. Staggering to the window, she peers into the darkness beyond. Only her military training allows her to pick out the faint glints of metal and slashes of movement that hint at what’s going on outside—a pitched battle between the Osiris’s mechs and a swarm of unknown fighter craft.

The ship shudders again—another blast must’ve landed somewhere else—and then the soft gold illumination in the room switches to blinking red alarm lights. Over the speaker, someone shouts, “All hands to emergency stations! We’re under attack!”

A few people begin screaming. Noemi turns back to the window, realizing that the fight outside involves at least hundreds of combatants—maybe more than a thousand. Whoever came after this ship came in force.

Delphine holds one hand to her chest, as if that’s all that’s keeping her racing heart inside. “Attack? Who would be attacking us?”

It’s Gillian Shearer who answers, her oval face gone an even starker white. “Remedy.”