NOEMI LOOKS DOWN AT HER CLOTHES. SHE’D HOPED nobody on the lunar station would notice her in this gray, shapeless gear. Now she feels conspicuous. Even ugly.

Don’t be ridiculous. Abel said what you’re wearing is fine for what you’re about to pretend to be. So what if it looks awful? You’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here to buy a T-7 anx and move on fast.

Assuming, of course, that she can trust Abel.

Obviously she has some real control over him here on the Daedalus. Will that hold true when they land at Wayland Station? When other humans are around—humans who despise Genesis, who would shoot Noemi on sight? The nervous energy inside her still surges and sparks, taking her from fear to excitement and back again.

She’s about to visit another planet. Well, its moon. But still! This is the adventure she always wanted, and the mission she can’t screw up. Her deepest dream wrapped in her darkest nightmare.

On this mission, there can be no mistakes. One false step and Noemi dies along with her planet’s best chance of salvation.

Noemi tries to figure the number of days that have passed since she left Genesis—but now that she’s left her solar system, concepts like “days” have become much more nebulous. Einsteinian differences in the passage of time over vast differences in space will have to be taken into account, too. She should ask Abel to calculate it for her.…

But she catches herself. It’s already too easy for her to rely on Abel. By instinct, she trusts the machine to operate normally—but Abel has that other side, that uncanny spark of consciousness, and she distrusts that profoundly. She doesn’t want to get into the habit of depending on him too much. Maybe she can set up a program to count down the days for her.

Should she even let him leave the Daedalus? Surely she can figure out how to buy space parts on her own.

But she can’t let paranoia get the better of her. Abel’s a one-of-a-kind prototype, which means he’s unregistered. He’s so humanlike that the average person would never guess he’s a mech. If Noemi had met him under any other circumstances, she wouldn’t have known either. She has to find out whether or not she can trust his programming at some point; it might as well be now. Abel’s a tool she’s been given and one she shouldn’t be afraid to use.

So she tells herself, and it almost drowns out the eerie feeling she had when Abel said he wouldn’t know much about freedom.

Wayland Station begins coming into view as the ship skims closer to Kismet’s moon. From a greater distance, it looked like just another lunar crater, but Noemi begins to make out the details of the settlement within, sealed beneath a transparent bubble. Dozens of Vagabond craft throng around Wayland waiting for their own permission to land. She recognizes some of the wild painted marks on their ships: Maori designs on this one, a silly zigzag pattern on another, and one that’s simply bright green, like a leaf floating in outer space.

They’re all carrying people from other planets. A small thrill runs through her, one that burns her tiredness away. Mostly from Earth, I bet, but some could be from Stronghold, or even Cray. Today I’ll meet someone from a whole new world. I’ll stand on a planet besides the one I was born on. I’ll look up and see new constellations in the stars.

Genesis doctrine says they need no other worlds. Noemi believes this. But even if you don’t need something, can’t you want it? Surely it can’t be wrong to want to see more of creation. To behold the universe from every possible angle—to be the way in which the universe is able to behold itself. As long as she can remember, she’s yearned to explore beyond any limits.

Now, at last, on this one mission, she can.

As the moon begins to eclipse the soft violet surface of Kismet, she stares down at the planet for a few moments longer. It sparkles like an amethyst against black velvet.

This is the world Esther will shine down on forever. Noemi’s so glad it’s beautiful.

At the moment she would’ve signaled him to land, Abel reappears wearing a plain, long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of work pants, both in olive green, and simply nods at her as he returns to the pilot’s position. His eerie sense of timing sets her on edge, as does his icy calm. He doesn’t speak a single unnecessary word as he steers the Daedalus through the open gap in Wayland Station’s dome, amid a flurry of Vagabond vessels, and settles it onto the moon’s surface. And once that gap has closed, sealing them within the spaceport—a low, gray building that looks nothing like the iridescent palaces of Kismet—Noemi’s wonder isn’t supporting her any longer. The reality of what she’s about to do sinks in, second by second. As she stands in front of the ship’s entryway, waiting for it to cycle open, she feels her body going cold. She clasps her hands in front of her, which keeps her from hugging herself. Abel would probably sneer at her human weakness if she did.

But as she prepares to confront a new planet for the very first time, she doesn’t feel like a soldier of Genesis. She only knows she’s too far from home.

She’s proud that her voice is steady as she asks, “When were you last on Kismet?”

“Never.”

“Never?” She turns toward Abel. “What about the other colony worlds?”

“I’ve never visited them either.”

“Then why were you acting like you know everything about them?”

“My lack of direct experience is irrelevant.” Abel shrugs. “Extremely thorough information came preloaded into my memory circuits.”

“Information from thirty years ago, you mean.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Of course. As I was marooned for three decades, my information about any recent developments is necessarily limited. Will you require me to remind you of this at regular intervals?”

Noemi manages to hang on to her temper, but it’s hard. His arrogance makes her want to scream. “My point is, you can stop acting like you know everything about Kismet, all right?”

“I’ve never claimed to know everything about Kismet.” He gives her a small, seemingly polite smile. “I simply know more than you.”

Why didn’t I push him out of an air lock when I had the chance?

Maybe he can see the dark blaze of fury in her eyes. Abel’s face remains expressionless, but he takes a step back. His uncertainty would please her more if she weren’t freaking out, too. But she’s in control again, and the mech knows it.

Then the curved metal plates of the entryway spiral open.

What they reveal is chaos. The spaceport is crowded and noisy, and it stinks of grease and sweat. Hundreds of people jumble together, struggling to pass along paths and bridges far too narrow for the crowds. The clothes they wear are brilliantly colored but odd, motley pieces thrown together without regard for function, most of them worn or even threadbare. The ships docked nearby look as ramshackle as their owners, now that she sees them up close. Even to Noemi, who’s used to Genesis’s aging fleet, the vessels around them seem more likely to collapse than fly. Screens and holos have been crammed into every corner, hung from every one of the naked metal beams overhead. It’s almost like the screens are important, but Noemi can tell they’re only showing ads. Over and over. Music and slogans blaring so loud they drown out every human voice—

And now, walking up to them, is a mech.

Her memory responds instantly. George model. Designed for work requiring middling intelligence and a high threshold for boredom. Most often deployed in bureaucratic roles.

Darius Akide would be proud of her for remembering all of that. He wouldn’t be proud, though, of the shudder that passes through her as she looks at the George for the first time. Although it looks like his hairstyle has been changed from the old models, in every other way the George appears exactly the way he does in the old images. He’s slightly stocky, with pale skin and brown hair.

What gets her are the eyes.

The George’s eyes are a bland shade of green, but somehow they’re… empty. Like a doll’s eyes, except when Noemi was little she imagined that her dolls loved her back. Nobody could even pretend a soul lay behind the George’s empty face. What sits within its metal skull is a nest of wiring and computer memory. Circuits and signals. No soul.

However, the George does nothing more unsettling than hold up a datapad to get an image of their faces. “Name of vessel?”

“The Medusa,” Abel says. “Named after the mythological female who took pleasure in turning men to stone.”

Noemi decides she’s going to believe he chose that name at random. The only alternative is punching him in the nose, which would probably tip off the George that something was wrong.

“The Medusa. Confirmed.” Abel’s fake ID for their ship held. Good. “Names of human occupants?”

She tries to sound casual. “Noemi Vidal.”

“Abel Mansfield,” Abel says smoothly. Was he programmed to take on his creator’s surname, or was that something he could choose to do?

The last name doesn’t trigger any more reaction than their pictures did, because the George mech nods. “Earth nations of origin?”

Noemi hesitates only a moment before deciding to use the birthplace of her ancestors. “Chile.”

Abel says, “Great Britain.” Maybe that’s where he was created.

“You are hereby cleared for up to six days’ stay on Wayland Station. Please prepay your first day’s docking fee, which is nonrefundable.” The George hands over a small, dark dataread, which begins to glow with scrolling information. Abel immediately inputs whatever info the dataread needs to show they’ve paid for the right to put their ship down. They’ve passed inspection. Nobody’s coming for Abel; nobody’s caught on to her. They made it.

She ought to be relieved. To want to cheer her victory. But the chaos around her, the noise and grime and unmistakable sense of desperation—

Noemi has never felt so far from home.

The George points left, toward a long line of brightly clothed Vagabonds. “Report for Cobweb screening and final clearance. Have a pleasant stay.”

As they start walking toward the others, Noemi goes on tiptoe to whisper in Abel’s ear. “Cobweb screening? What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” He clearly hates admitting that; she wishes she were less freaked out, so she could enjoy his displeasure. “I could only speculate.”

“Okay, speculate.”

“To judge by the fact that health care supplies seem to be stored here”—Abel gestures toward crates with the telltale green cross on them—“this seems most likely to be some sort of medical screening.”

“Medical screening?” Noemi grabs his arm as if to tug him back. His body feels startlingly human. Will that be enough to fool a medical doctor, or are they about to get caught?

But there’s no more time to discuss. Already attendants in pale green have stepped close to pull them apart.

Panic rises in her throat, and she wants to cling to Abel—a machine, and a hostile, superior one—all she has to rely on in a strange solar system, on a mission of the greatest importance and danger.

No, she thinks, standing up straighter and letting go of Abel of her own free will. I can rely on myself. The mission might’ve changed, but I haven’t. I can do this.

They’re led without ceremony into a large tented area, where Vagabonds of various ages, genders, and races are all dropping their clothes for inspection. Noemi’s never been particularly shy about her body, but there’s something so cold about this. The doctors or nurses calling them forward to be looked over show no compassion or concern; they’re not here to take care of the Vagabonds, just to sort through them.

Once she’s undressed, holding her gray clothing wadded under one arm, she stands in line like the others. The girl standing next to her seems to be roughly her own age, tall and dark-skinned, with long braids that fall to her waist and a body so skinny her ribs show. She’s not the only one in line that thin. But there’s something about her eyes that seems… gentle, maybe. At any rate, Noemi decides to take a chance and whispers, “Hey—what’s Cobweb?”

“You don’t know?” The girl has a lilting, beautiful accent. “You’re new to this Vagabonding thing, huh? Don’t guess they talk about it much on Earth.”

“Not much,” Noemi says. “And, uh, very new.”

Although this girl still looks dubious, she explains, “It’s a nasty virus. The worst. Gives you the chills something fierce, and breaks veins all over your body. You get this weird rash with white lines everywhere. So it looks like you’re wearing a spiderweb, see?”

Noemi nods. The strangeness of speaking to someone from another planet has begun to fade. This person isn’t an enemy or an alien—she’s just a person. A nice one, even. “The name makes sense.”

“Point is, Cobweb’s contagious, and it can be deadly if you don’t catch it in time.” The girl’s expression darkens for a moment as she shakes her braids free of the scarf she’d worn around her head. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

The medical mech is the Tare model, which looks like a middle-aged woman of East Asian ancestry. Human medical assistants work by the Tare’s side, but there’s no question who will judge her. It’s just as brisk and efficient as Akide’s lectures always said—and even her eyes don’t reflect anything like the intelligence Noemi sees inside Abel.

Speaking of Abel…

Noemi glances around, hoping he hasn’t already been tugged out of line, exposed as a machine. Instead she catches a glimpse of him, naked from the waist up, disrobing at the far end of the medical tent. The first thing that strikes her is how unworried he seems. Is that because he’ll pass inspection without being detected, or because he can’t wait to be rescued and expose her in the process?

What hits her next is that Abel’s already attracting attention. A lot of it. Not because he looks like a machine, but because he might have the single most perfect body Noemi’s ever seen. Or imagined. He could be some ancient marble sculpture, with his pale skin, developed muscles, and exact symmetry. If she didn’t know he was just a machine, she might even think he was…

“Smoky,” murmurs the girl in front of her, the one with the braids. She smiles as she unashamedly watches Abel remove his pants, too. “Not that I don’t love my fella, but—”

“Next,” calls one of the medical assistants, and the girl hurries forward for inspection.

The Tare runs her hands along the backs and limbs of every single person in line, as impersonally as though they were statues. When it’s Noemi’s turn, the Tare pauses. “You possess more musculature than the average female of your age.”

Not on Genesis, she doesn’t. Noemi’s actually pretty lazy about her weight lifting. It’s the one part of military discipline she’s the worst at. But compared to the skinny, half-starved Vagabond girls around her, Noemi looks almost impossibly strong. “Our, uh, last job involved a lot of physical labor,” she answers, thinking fast. “It lasted for months. Guess you can see the difference.”

Apparently the explanation is satisfactory, because the Tare lets her move on.

Noemi puts her clothes back on in a hurry. They’re not allowed to wait for others—and besides, she doesn’t know if she’s ready to see Abel completely naked. Instead she walks through the far end of the tent into Wayland Station proper…

… which is pretty much the same as walking into hell.

Kismet’s welcome message made their whole world seem so beautiful, so polished, so elegant. The entertainment offered here? Not so much. She’s surrounded by billboards, holo-adverts, and shimmering lights. The majority of them, and the brightest, all proclaim that THE ORCHID FESTIVAL IS HERE! This seems to be some sort of musical event, although various celebrity and political guests are advertised as being in attendance as well. At least, that’s what Noemi guesses they are; the names and faces are all utterly unfamiliar to her. Some guy called Han Zhi seems to be the biggest draw. While the festival itself is on Kismet, apparently Wayland visitors can watch in various clubs, for a fee.

If that doesn’t appeal, the clubs here have other gambits for taking the travelers’ money. PLAY ALL NIGHT AT LUCKY NINETEEN! says a holo in the shape of a roulette wheel, spinning its colors around them. On a nearby screen, two mechs are shown preening, wearing little besides oiled skin and smiles; these are the pleasure models, Fox and Peter. The slogan promises you can HAVE A PLAYTHING OF YOUR VERY OWN.

Or you can watch people race motorcycles along a nearly vertical track, which looks incredibly dangerous. Sure enough, there’s a small line at the bottom of the holo warning spectators that fatalities can happen. The warning looks more like a promise. Who could be amused watching people risk death for nothing more than a motorcycle race?

Noemi does, at least, understand the appeal of the display directly in front of her—actual entertainment, probably to keep the crowds from complaining about the long waits and rough treatment. In a large antigrav sphere, a scantily clad girl is dancing. Different areas of the sphere light up, peach flickers that signal the dancer where the gravity will be turned on next. The diaphanous veils covering her body flutter as she plunges upward, kicks sideways, floating on the different gravity sources like a leaf on the breeze. There’s a pattern to it, Noemi sees; dancing in there might be fun, if it were only about the dancing, not about letting grubby space travelers drool at you. Because a lot of these guys around her are drooling, and shouting obscenities, and it’s all so disgusting that Noemi wants to scream.

“Interesting,” Abel says, coming up beside her, dressed again and unworried. “I would’ve thought they would charge for a show like this.”

“Abel. How did you get through the medical screening?”

“It was a fairly cursory external check,” Abel says. “The human medical personnel were being rather closely watched. Did you notice?”

“No.” She doesn’t see how it matters anyway. “We can look for a T-7 anx now, right?”

“Right.” But Abel doesn’t move. He simply looks around at the garish advertisements, the ugly shouts of the people near them. “Does it trouble you?”

“What? The dance?” Noemi glances over at the scarf-clad girl, who’s still pinwheeling through the sphere, ignoring her catcallers.

“The desperation,” Abel says crisply. “Seeing what’s become of the galaxy since Genesis’s secession. If it bothers you, I can attempt to find a way to minimize your contact with others.”

“We didn’t do this to Earth and the colony worlds.” Noemi shakes her head as the peach lights play on her face. “They did it to themselves. If we hadn’t pulled away when we did, they would’ve done it to us, too. So, no, I’m not troubled. This place proves we did the right thing.”

Abel inclines his head, as if acknowledging that she has a point. She’d like to enjoy that small victory. Instead, however, she looks again at the broken-down ships, the too-skinny Vagabonds, the exploitive culture, and asks herself, Are we responsible for this? We can’t be. We’re the good guys.

Aren’t we?