AS ABEL FLOATS IN ZERO-G, IN THE DARK QUIET OF A dead ship’s equipment pod bay, he tells himself the story again. The black-and-white images flicker in his mind with total accuracy; it’s as if he’s watching it projected upon a screen, the way it was shown centuries ago. Abel possesses an eidetic memory, so he only needs to see things once to remember them forever.
And he enjoys remembering Casablanca. Retelling himself every scene, in order, over and over again. The characters’ voices are so vivid in his mind that the actors might as well be floating in the pod bay beside him:
Where were you last night?
That’s so long ago, I don’t remember.
It’s a good story, one that holds up to repetition. This is fortunate for Abel, who has now been trapped in the Daedalus for almost thirty years. Roughly fifteen million, seven hundred and seventy thousand, nine hundred minutes, or nine hundred and forty-six million, seven hundred thousand seconds.
(He has been programmed to round off such large numbers outside of actual scientific work. The same humans who made him capable of measuring with perfect precision also find the mention of such numbers irritating. It makes no sense to Abel, but he knows better than to expect rational behavior from human beings.)
The nearly complete darkness of his confinement makes it easy for Abel to imagine that reality is in black and white, like the movie.
New input. Form: irregular flashes of light. The drama stops cold in Abel’s mind as he looks up to analyze—
Blaster bolts. A battle, no doubt between Earth and Genesis forces.
Abel was marooned here in just such a battle. After a long silence, warfare has reignited in the past two years. At first he found that encouraging. If Earth ships were again coming to the Genesis system, they would eventually find the Daedalus. They would tow it in to reclaim everything inside, including Abel himself.
And after thirty terrible years of suspense, Abel would finally be able to fulfill his primary directive: Protect Burton Mansfield.
Honor the creator. Obey his directives above all others. Preserve his life no matter what.
But his hopes have faded as the war has churned on. No one has come to find him, and no one seems likely to do so in the near future. Perhaps not even in the distant future. Although Abel is stronger than any human being and a match for even the most powerful fighter mechs, he can’t tear open the air-lock door separating him from the rest of the Daedalus. (He tried. Despite knowing down to the hundredth decimal point the ratios working against him, Abel still tried. Thirty years is a long time.)
Neither Abel himself nor this ship would have been abandoned lightly. Abel has run through the various scenarios many times, but he can’t accept it. Mansfield could have fled to save himself, meaning to return for Abel, but he was simply never able to. Then again, the battle intensified so much that day that any human escape from the Daedalus might have been impossible. In all probability, Mansfield was killed by enemy troops on the same day Abel became trapped.
And yet, Burton Mansfield is a genius, the creator of all twenty-six models of mech that currently serve humankind. If anyone could devise a way to survive that last battle, Mansfield could have.
Of course, Abel’s creator could also have died in the years since. He was in his late middle age thirty years ago, and with humans, accidents sometimes happen. Perhaps that is why he hasn’t come. Surely only death would keep Mansfield away.
There is another possibility. It is the least likely of all plausible options, but not impossible: Mansfield might still be aboard, but in cryosleep. The cryosleep chambers in sick bay could keep a human alive with minimal life support for an indefinite amount of time. The person inside would be unconscious, aging at less than one-tenth the normal rate and waiting for a rescuer to bring them back to life.
All Abel would have to do is get to him.
Before he can find Mansfield, however, someone must find him. So far, Earth’s forces have spent no time searching the debris field for functioning ships. Nobody has found Abel; no one is even looking.
Someday, he tells himself. Earth’s victory is inevitable, whether it comes in another two months or two hundred years. It’s entirely possible for Abel to live that long.
But Mansfield would surely be dead by then. Maybe even Casablanca won’t be interesting after that many years—
Abel tilts his head, peering more carefully at the sliver of star field he can see through the pod bay’s window. After a moment, he reaches out to the closest wall and pushes off, bringing himself closer to the view. In the ultra-thick glass, he has to look through his own translucent reflection, with his short gold hair fanned out around his head as though he were in a medieval manuscript, gilt-edged.
This battle is coming nearer to the Daedalus than any other ever has. A few fighters are already on the edges of the debris field; if Earth’s forces continue separating the Genesis troops from one another, some of the mechs will soon be very close to his ship.
Very, very close.
He must determine a method for sending a signal. It would have to be a low-tech solution, and the signal could only be very basic. But Abel doesn’t need to send information to a human, doesn’t have to worry about the limitations of an organic brain. Any small pattern amid the chaos might attract the attention of another mech—and if it has a chance to investigate, its programming will compel it to do so.
Abel pushes against the wall to propel himself through the pod bay. After thirty years, he is all too familiar with the few pieces of equipment in here with him, not one of which can help him power up the ship, open the pod bay door, or communicate directly with another vessel. But that doesn’t mean they’re useless.
In one corner, suspended a few centimeters from the wall, is a simple flashlight.
Helps with repairs, Mansfield had explained, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. Humans can’t rewire a spaceship with nothing but their memory of the schematics. Not like you, my boy. We need to see it. Abel remembered smiling back, proud that he could replace weaker humans and serve Mansfield better.
And yet he could never hold humanity in contempt, because Mansfield was human, too.
Grabbing the flashlight, Abel launches himself toward the window again. What message should he send?
No message. Only a signal. Someone is here; someone seeks contact. The rest can come later.
Abel holds the light to the window. He has not used it during the past decades, and it still holds sufficient charge. One flash. Then two, three, five, seven, eleven—and so on through the first ten primes. He plans to repeat the sequence until someone sees him.
Or until the battle ends, leaving him alone for many more years to come.
But maybe someone will see, Abel thinks.
He isn’t supposed to hope. Not like humans do. Yet during the past several years, his mind has been forced to deepen. With no new stimulation, he has reflected on every piece of information, every interaction, every single element of his existence before the abandonment of the Daedalus. Something within in his inner workings has changed, and probably not for the better.
Because hope can hurt, and yet Abel can’t stop looking out the window, wishing desperately for someone to see him, so he will no longer be alone.