WITHIN ANOTHER EIGHT HOURS, ABEL HAS RESTORED all primary functions. Some of his organic structures will continue to heal further, but he has full mobility and no pain.

He should be happy, an emotion he has discovered lies well within his parameters of feeling. Noemi saved him from death by freezing and has decided to spare him. She acknowledged him as an equal. And she did something no human ever does for a mech: She set him free.

But Abel was never designed for freedom.

He has never dreamed about it. Never even wanted it. Mechs are made for something or someone. Not simply… to be. Even Abel, created from Mansfield’s curiosity and hope, was surely meant to stay by his side always.

But when he says as much to Noemi, she disagrees.

“Wait a minute,” she says the next afternoon, as they walk together down to the crew mess to grab a pouch of emergency rations before getting back to work. “After this you can go anywhere in the galaxy—do absolutely anything—and you’re just returning to Burton Mansfield? I don’t understand why you think Mansfield’s so great after what he did to you.”

“Did to me? Mansfield did everything for me.”

“He put your soul inside a machine—”

“No. He created my soul. He made it possible. He gave that to me.” Abel finds himself smiling. “He couldn’t have known I’d reach this point, but he must have at least hoped for that. Otherwise he wouldn’t have created the capacity.”

After a long moment, Noemi folds her arms in grudging agreement. “I guess.”

“Which makes him less like my creator and more like a parent.” Father, he thinks. Mansfield must’ve known what he was doing when he urged Abel to call him by that name. “Children don’t abandon their parents, do they?”

“Not usually. But they don’t stay with their parents their whole lives either. In the end, you’re supposed to choose a life of your own.”

“In the end,” Abel says. “I’m not there yet.” After thirty years stranded in space, plus several days believing his destruction was imminent, it feels incredible to be able to say such a thing and know it to be true.

However, talking about “the end” has reminded Abel that Burton Mansfield is an elderly man.

After Mansfield dies, then what?

Mechs don’t age much in the visible sense. But even mechs die. Both organic and mechanical systems break down, given enough time. Absent damage, a mech can expect to live about two hundred years before grinding to a halt.

If Abel lives another one hundred and fifty years, he will live the vast majority of those without Burton Mansfield. All the programming within him—what use will it serve then? Only one: It will ensure that Abel remains every bit as lonely as he did in that pod bay.

Abel dislikes this conclusion not only because it predicts his future unhappiness, but also because, if he’s been designed to suffer so much for so long, Noemi is right. Mansfield has made a terrible mistake.

He won’t blame Mansfield. Not yet. But he sees the very real possibility of Mansfield’s error.

I have changed, he thinks. I am changing.

“Are you okay?” Her smile wavers. “You looked so strange for a second.”

“I’m much better,” Abel says. In truth he still feels odd—as if he is having trouble concentrating—but no doubt that’s a sign of the damage still repairing within. “We should get to work.”

“I know. We only have—how many days is it now?”

Until the Masada Run, she means. “Nine days.”

Noemi blanches. “I thought we had a couple more days—”

“We’re much farther from Kismet here, beyond the Blind Gate. More time will have elapsed on your homeworld. The Einsteinian calculations are complex.” Once Abel would’ve added that no human brain could expect to handle such complicated work, but he’s learned better. “We still have time.”

She shakes her head as she drops to her knees to reopen one of the lower panels. “Not enough.”

Abel feels the urgency driving her on as fiercely as if it were his world he needed to save and not hers. Assuming there’s a world he could truly call his own.

They get back to work in the small, shining, cube-shaped engine room of the Daedalus. Throughout the rest of the ship, curved lines dominate. Beauty and symmetry guide the placement of every panel, every chair. The engine room, however, is as gray, basic, and joyless as it is possible for a room to be, outside of prison facilities. It is a place for installation and repair, nothing more. Yet Abel finds himself liking the room, because here he and Noemi work together as partners. They are no longer adversaries, or human and mech; they are equals. Nobody has ever accepted him that way before, and Abel finds the experience… almost intoxicating.

They work together almost in silence, speaking only about the mechanical elements they’re repairing. Noemi’s desperation seems to fill the room as surely as heat or perfume. Abel works as fast as he can without completely leaving her behind; their margin of time, while tighter than before, is still adequate—and he knows she needs to be a part of the solution.

But not everything can be rushed. After several hours of effort, they reach a point where the shields have to go through a long round of self-diagnostics. This leaves them with nothing to do for some time to come.

“You will have enough time to sleep a full eight hours,” he tells her as they pack up their tools. “Plus exercise, if you desire it.”

“I need it, but I can’t.” Noemi winces as she rubs her temples. “I can’t even think right now. I’m so wiped out, but there’s no way I could sleep. Every time my mind wanders, I think about the Masada Run, and then—”

“Dwelling on events you cannot yet influence will only discourage you.” He considers the possibilities. “Recreation might provide a welcome distraction.”

“Recreation?” She leans one shoulder against the wall. “Like what?”

Abel had been speaking in general terms, but now he knows the perfect suggestion. “Would you like to see a movie?”

“If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”

As thrilled as Abel is to finally be watching Casablanca again in real life, he keeps glancing over at Noemi to gauge her reaction. It’s nearly as good as the film itself. She’s been rapt since the first few minutes, laughing at all the jokes once he explained the antique references. Now she’s completely caught up in the bittersweet ending. All her troubles have slipped into the background for a time; for the moment, at least, he can simply make her happy.

They’ve turned the junior crew’s bunk room into their makeshift theater, each of them curled on parallel beds, the story playing out on the room’s one large screen. These movies were known as “black-and-white,” but really the images shimmer in a thousand shades of silver.

Rick touches Ilsa’s chin, tilting her face gently upward. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Abel’s always liked that part. He wonders what it would feel like, touching someone’s face that way.

“That can’t be the end,” Noemi says, as Ilsa and Victor Laszlo walk toward the plane, leaving Rick behind forever. “That’s why she leaves?”

“You don’t think she should stay with Laszlo?”

“Of course she has to go fight the Nazis. But… when does she decide that for herself? Rick’s the one who made the decision.”

Abel’s never considered this before. “It seems she decided while Rick was speaking to her.”

With a frown, Noemi scrunches down farther in her bunk. “I wish she’d made the choice on her own.”

“You wish she showed greater autonomy. But if she did so, the movie would perhaps suggest that she really hadn’t loved Rick at all. That she was only pretending for Laszlo’s benefit.”

“Good point,” Noemi says absently. She’s already caught up in seeing which way Captain Renault will turn.

At the end, she applauds, which catches Abel off guard. “You enjoyed it?”

“What? Of course I did. That was amazing.” Noemi’s smile is warmer than he’d known it could be. “There really is something about 2-D films. You only get the images and sound, but it makes your imagination work harder, doesn’t it? So you wind up wrapping the story around you. And the whole idea of her being in love with Rick but not wanting to hurt Victor because he’s so heroic and important… it’s pretty romantic.”

This topic strikes Abel as particularly fascinating. “Have you ever been in love?”

Noemi stares at him, snapped out of her dreamy mood. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious about human emotional development and response.” For some reason, that makes her laugh. “Did I say something wrong? Is the question too personal?”

“Kinda. But—” She sinks back onto her bunk. “No, I haven’t been in love. I thought I was once, but I was wrong.”

“How can you be wrong about your own emotions?” Abel finds his feelings confusing, but he’s always assumed that was due to their relative newness.

“It felt like love, sometimes. I was crazy about him, wanted to be with him, hoped he’d love me back—all of that. But really I was only in love with my idea of Jemuel. My daydreams of all the romantic times we could spend together, in theory. Not in reality.”

“Did he not love you back?” That strikes Abel as unlikely. Noemi is courageous, forthright, intelligent, and kind. These must be desirable qualities in a mate.

“No. We flirted a few times—he even kissed me once—but that’s all.” Her fingers belie her casual tone, tracing absently along the curved line of her lower lip. “Actually, he wound up falling for Esther. They were right for each other in a way the two of us never would’ve been.”

“None of this correlates with what I know of human behavior in such situations. You experienced no jealousy or anger?”

Her expression clouds. “At first I did. At first I felt like I would die. Just… drop down and die. But I never let Esther see it. That would’ve devastated her, and she’d have broken up with Jemuel, which would’ve been stupid because it’s not like he would’ve come to me instead. What’s the point? So I kept my mouth shut and pretended I was fine with it until I really was fine. Now when I talk with Jemuel, I can’t believe I was ever into him. He’s kind of stiff, really.”

“But you still sounded wistful, when you spoke of him.” Abel finds himself going back to that memory of her… her dark eyes searching an unseen distance, her fingers brushing her lip.

Noemi says, “I guess it’s just the idea of love I miss. And, well, it was a good kiss.” Her smile turns rueful. “At least I got some practice.”

A wonderful idea occurs to Abel. “Do you need more practice?”

“Huh?”

“We could practice, if you wanted.” He smiles as he starts to explain. “Remember what I told you on Genesis? I’m programmed with a wide array of techniques for providing physical pleasure, via every activity from kissing to the more arcane positions for sexual intercourse. Although I’ve never performed any of them before, I’m confident I could do so very skillfully.”

She stares at him, eyes wide. Since she is swift to voice objections if she has them, Abel takes her silence as an encouraging sign.

So he sits up on the bed to explain the further compelling reasons now coming to mind. “Humans need a certain amount of physical release and comfort in order to be psychologically healthy. You’ve been away from your family and friends for some time, and have endured considerable trauma, suggesting you are in even greater need than usual. I have all the information and technique necessary to be an excellent partner, my body is designed to be appealing, and of course I can neither carry disease nor impregnate you. We have total privacy and many hours of spare time. Conditions for intercourse would seem to be ideal.”

Noemi remains statue-still for another moment, then starts to laugh, but her laugh isn’t unkind. When she finally looks at him again, her cheeks are flushed. “Abel, I’m, uh—it’s nice of you to offer, I guess.” She tucks a lock of black hair behind her ear and bites her lower lip before adding, “But I couldn’t.”

No denying it: Abel feels disappointed. “Why not?”

“Among people of my faith on Genesis, sex is something you save for committed relationships. For people you care about very deeply.”

“You’d suggested your culture wasn’t as puritanical as Earth claimed.”

“It’s not. I mean, sex is a natural part of life. A wonderful part. We all understand that. And some of the faiths are a lot more permissive than the Second Catholic Church. But for me, at least, sex should be with someone I love.”

“I understand,” Abel says, hoping that he does.

She rolls onto her side, toward him, but doesn’t look him in the face as she adds, “You couldn’t have gotten me pregnant anyway. I mean, nobody could. The explosion that killed the rest of my family—it exposed me to some pretty terrible toxins.”

Although Noemi says it evenly, Abel can tell it hurts her deeply, or once did. How can he possibly console her for such a loss?

Finally he settles on, “I feel certain your genetic material would have been of the highest quality.”

She laughs again, more weakly this time. He must have said something wrong.

“If I offended you, I apologize. It was intended as a compliment—”

“No, Abel, it’s okay. I know what you meant.” Noemi glances over at him from where she lies on the bed, bashful and amused, and Abel feels an odd, disarming imbalance—as if merely looking at her throws his perceptions off-kilter. Within another instant, though, she sits up and stretches, breaking his reverie. “I’m still completely exhausted, and now I’m getting a headache. How long before the next diagnostic cycle ends?”

“Seven hours.” Since she seems to be indicating a less intimate mood would be preferred, he gets to his feet. “You can sleep through the night and rejoin me in the morning.”

“Shouldn’t you sleep, too? You’re still healing.”

He shakes his head. “I’m back to normal operations. You shouldn’t rejoin me until you are, too.”

“I thought I gave the orders around here.” But she’s only teasing him, her earlier embarrassment already fading. Noemi heads out the door toward her own cabin, her steps slow and weary. But she glances over her shoulder to say, “Good night.”

“Good night,” Abel repeats.

Her departure leaves him feeling restless. He knows she enjoyed Casablanca. Their efforts to interact as equals, even as friends, are proving successful. Repairs to the Daedelus are progressing smoothly, and they should be able to leave within another ten to twelve hours. So his mood should now be neutral to positive.

Instead he keeps replaying his memory of asking Noemi to have sex. Except in his memory, every time, he says it a little differently—a little better—and wonders if that would’ve convinced her to say yes.

Abel doesn’t experience desire in the same way humans do; Mansfield told him no man ought to be a slave to his own genitalia. But Abel can feel physical pleasure and would expect to during sex. In humans, desire comes before action; for Abel, it should be the other way around. But he’s been curious what desire would feel like.

His programming encourages him to seek out new experiences. He failed to have one tonight. That explains his disappointment, then.

No doubt.

The next morning, Abel remains hard at work in the engine room as he counts away the hours until Noemi is likely to appear. The earliest probable hour passes, as does the most probable—and then, finally, the latest Abel had calculated goes by without one word from her.

Only eight days remain before the Masada Run. Noemi remembers that. She wouldn’t let her exhaustion last night cost even one hour that might help her save the people of Genesis.

So Abel contacts her via intra-ship comms. “Noemi? It’s Abel.” An illogical thing to say, given that no one else could possibly be on board, but humans seem to find it comforting, this repetition of the obvious. “Are you awake?”

After a long pause, she replies, “Yeah. I just—I don’t feel good.”

“You’re ill?” He wonders if some of the emergency rations on board had in fact gone bad. The resulting food poisoning should not be fatal, but would cause severe nausea and fever. “Can I help you in any way? Would you like me to bring you water?”

“I think—I think maybe, yeah.”

Noemi’s voice is hoarse. Worse, she sounds unfocused, dazed. Human beings sometimes talk this way when intoxicated, though there are no inebriants on board and Noemi would be unlikely to overindulge.

Therefore, the only conclusion is that she is in fact very sick.

“I’ll be right there,” Abel promises. He hurries upward through the spiral corridor. Her room is on the second rotation, but she’s not inside. He sees her ahead of him in the corridor, just at the next visible bend—sitting on the floor in her pink T-shirt and leggings, leaning her head against the wall. He drops to his knees by her side. “Noemi, what’s happening?”

She looks at him with dull, reddened eyes. “I wanted to go to sick bay. To see if they have something for fever.”

Abel places his hand on her forehead. Her temperature is 100.7 Fahrenheit. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“So tired—Abel, I’m so tired—”

He scoops her into his arms to carry her to sick bay. As he does so, her oversize T-shirt slips sideways again, exposing her collarbone and part of her shoulder. Her deep tan skin is now marred by thin, crooked white lines. Although Abel has never seen this before, he knows instantly what this has to be:

Cobweb.