NOEMI DRIFTS IN AND OUT OF REALITY. SHE TRIES TO focus her thoughts on what’s most important, but it’s hard, so hard, to do anything but lie there and simmer in her own fever heat.

“You could have called me for assistance,” Abel says. He’s laid her someplace cool and bright—sick bay. This is sick bay. She’s lying on the same bed where Esther died.

“I didn’t think I needed to.” Her feet are cold. She hates it when her feet are cold. “Not at first. Then it felt like it was too late.”

“It wasn’t too late.” Abel’s hand circles her wrist, and his thumb presses down just where the thin latticework of her veins lies closest to the skin. His skin is cool against hers—not because he’s a mech, but because she’s burning up. “Your pulse is thready. Have you been able to eat or drink?”

Has she? Noemi shakes her head, then stops when it makes the floor seem to tilt and spin. “Haven’t tried in a while.”

“You need fluids immediately.”

A moment later, a plastic straw pokes at her mouth. Noemi obediently takes a few sips, half opening her eyes to see Abel holding the pouch of… whatever this is. Something blue. It tastes sweet, too sweet, as if it were trying to trick you into drinking it.

When she lets her head fall back again, Abel says, “The medical scanners report a virus unknown to its databanks. The marks on your skin suggest, with a very high level of probability, that you’re suffering from Cobweb.”

People die of Cobweb. Harriet told Noemi that much. But it doesn’t have to be fatal, not necessarily. “I’ll get better,” she mumbles. “Just need to rest.”

“The bioscan readings are…” His voice trails off, but he seems to catch himself. “They aren’t good. And you’re unusually radioactive.”

That jolts her into a moment of clarity. “Radioactive?”

Abel touches her shoulder, which calms her. “All humans naturally emit a very low level of radiation. Yours is significantly higher than normal. Not enough to be dangerous to you or to anyone else on its own, but it’s a sign the Cobweb has drastically altered your physical condition. It’s a very strange symptom for a virus to have.”

Noemi tries to force her fever-maddened brain to think. “Maybe the radiation isn’t a symptom. Maybe it’s something we ran into on Cray.”

“If it were, then my level of radioactivity would have risen as well. It hasn’t. This disease is—it’s completely unfamiliar to me. Noemi, I don’t know how to help you, and we can’t assume you’ll recover on your own. We have to get you to a fully staffed medical facility.”

“Thought you—you had all the models’ knowledge. Tare medical models, too.”

“I do. But from thirty years ago, when I was stranded. Cobweb hadn’t yet appeared then. So I have no information on optimal treatment or likely prognosis.” Abel sounds like he’s mad at the whole galaxy for containing even one piece of information he lacks.

“Just try your best.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not good enough.”

Abel just admitted his best might not be good enough? Under any other circumstances, Noemi would’ve teased him like crazy for that: the arrogant Model One A of the Mansfield Cybernetics line admitting he has limits. Now, though, she has to keep him from doing something so logical it’s idiotic. “What else can we do? On Cray or Kismet—we’ll be found by the Queen and Charlie. And no one on Genesis can help me.” Nobody there will have treated Cobweb either, and she can’t bring some terrible plague back to her world.

“Exactly. So we’ll go back through the Cray system on our way to Stronghold.”

Stronghold? It’s the most populated world on the Loop save for Earth itself, a cold, forbidding world heavy with ores. Stronghold is as different from Genesis as it is possible for any world to be. Worse, it’s still tightly bound to Earth, still completely loyal… so far as she knows. But that’s far enough. “Abel, no. It’s going to take too long.”

“We still have eight days. That gives us time to get to Stronghold.”

“Barely. And we could get caught. It’s too dangerous.”

“I can disguise the ship, check in with Stronghold’s computer networks to see whether our images have been distributed there. If so, I can probably erase them in advance.”

“Probably isn’t good enough.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, enough that she thinks the discussion is over. But just as she begins to drift in the fever again, he says, “You said you accepted me as your equal. I’m not under your authority any longer. So I get to vote, too, don’t I? And I vote for taking you to a doctor immediately.”

Then the vote’s a tie, and nobody wins. But as Noemi begins to say so, chills begin shivering their way up her body. Her bones ache as if she were being wrung out like a washcloth. She never, never wants to feel so cold again.

Noemi’s willing to die to save Genesis. But she never intended to throw her life away without meaning. If she dies out here, because of this, she dies for no reason.

She swallows hard and nods. “Stronghold.”

Noemi remembers their departure through the Blind Gate as hardly more than a blur of slowly spinning asteroids flecked across the brightly colored wisps of the nebula. When the light starts doing that strange bendy thing, she just closes her eyes.

She lies in sick bay, covered in silvery blankets. Before he left her to pilot the ship, Abel turned down the lights in the hopes Noemi could get some more sleep. She managed a catnap, but now she can only lie on the medical bed, gazing around the room in weary confusion. How can she possibly be so far from home? How is any of this actually happening? Maybe the virus is playing tricks on her, and in reality she’s back on Genesis, suffering from some totally normal illness.

But she can’t convince herself this is a dream, because her weak, aching body tells her this is all too real. And through the one oval sick bay window, she sees constellations of unfamiliar stars.

“Noemi?” Abel walks into the darkened sick bay, his face illuminated mostly by the glowing readings above her biobed. How long has it been since the leap through the Blind Gate? She drifted off for a while, but can’t tell whether she was out for a few minutes or a day. “We’ll be in Stronghold orbit within the hour.” Closer to the latter then, she realizes, because she’s missed another entire Gate leap.

“Okay.” Will she be able to walk off the ship herself, or will Abel have to carry her?

“Noemi?” Abel’s leaning over her, his thumb brushing her sweat-damp hair from her forehead. Did she drift off again? “I’ve given you drugs that ought to reduce fever. I’m not sure whether they’re contraindicated for Cobweb, but—something needed to be done.”

“It’s okay.” Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Noemi doesn’t particularly care at the moment. There’s no way the drug could make her feel worse than she already does. The rest is irrelevant.

“We’re landing on Stronghold now.”

Something seems very wrong with that. “But—why aren’t you flying the ship?”

“Stronghold brings in nearly all incoming ships via tractor beam, even during mass migration waves.”

“Mass migration?” The fever must be ebbing somewhat; Noemi can focus her mind better now. “What do you mean?”

Abel answers her by activating a small screen on the wall, which shows a smaller version of what they’d have seen on the bridge—the planet Stronghold.

Its gray, crater-scarred surface makes it look more like a lifeless moon than a habitable world. The thin atmosphere is breathable, but only just, and the black seas that blot the surface are what Stronghold has instead of oceans. Thick, silvery icecaps coat the poles down nearly to what would, on a warmer world, be called the tropics. Factories and mines cover the equator with metal as if they were plates of armor. Even from orbit, she can see how much industrial smoke is being belched out.

“They’re using this world up, too,” she murmurs, pushing herself up on her elbows. “Poisoning it.”

“Not in this case.” Abel zooms in on the view, showing her more of the factories. “The planet has to be warmer before it can sustain more than three hundred million humans—very nearly the current population. So they’re intentionally releasing greenhouse gases as part of an effort to terraform Stronghold into a more habitable world.”

Noemi had never considered that before, that one world’s poison might be another’s salvation.

Stronghold looks as terrifying as any world possibly could, and yet it’s also her best chance of getting well. Going on with her mission. Saving Genesis.

Seven days. The fever can’t rob her of this knowledge, this deadline that eats at her every second. Seven days.

The ring around the planet confuses her at first—in school, nobody ever taught them that Stronghold had a ring. Her eyes widen as she recognizes what she’s actually seeing: a gigantic swarm of ships, mostly large industrial freighters, gathered like chickens at feed—each one of which must carry dozens if not hundreds of humans. This fleet dwarfs the cluster of ships they saw at Kismet; even more ominous, these ships show none of the Vagabonds’ imagination and spirit. No brilliant paint designs brighten the hulls of these square metal ships. They float in formations as rigid and regular as honeycombs, waiting and watching for the decision that will make the difference between life and death for everyone on board.

Then the screen shimmers into the planetary greeting. Triumphal music begins to play as a prerecorded image superimposes itself over the star field: Two black flags, each with a thin silver stripe down the middle, flutter on either side of an enormous granite building with massive columns in front.

“This is Stronghold,” says an announcer with a deep, purposeful voice. “Here, we mine the metals and minerals Earth and the other colony worlds need to survive. We train to serve in Earth’s armies with dignity and courage. And we work to reshape our planet into humanity’s next home. Someday our planet will stand at the center of the galaxy. Are you strong enough to stand with us?”

“That’s a pretty intense sales pitch if people have nowhere else to go,” Noemi says as the music swells over images of brawny miners who look far too clean, then military recruits running up a black-earthed mountain.

“I don’t think it’s a sales pitch,” Abel says. “I think it’s a warning that some people will be turned away.”

Nowhere in the prerecorded greeting does Noemi glimpse any elderly people or children. No one using walking or visual assistance. Maybe that’s just the glossy sheen of propaganda, but maybe not.

A world with no place for mercy and kindness, a world where there’s only one rigid, narrow way to be—is that really the only choice people from Earth have left?

The anti-fever drug Abel gave her buys Noemi almost half an hour of lucidity. She uses it to take a sonic shower and change into a simple olive-green jumpsuit. The pajamas are all sweaty; the thought of putting them against her body again grosses her out.

The ship shudders around them as the tractor beam tows them into the planetary atmosphere, toward Stronghold’s stark, rocky surface. As they’re pulled in an arc toward the landing base, Noemi sees more and more ships clustered nearby, coming in for landing as well.

“These people are going to check our info pretty closely,” Noemi warns as she sinks into one of the sick bay chairs. She’ll be back in a hospital bed soon enough. “This doesn’t look like a place where they let things slide.”

“Our ship ID has held up so far.” Abel tries not to look too proud of his forgery skills, and fails.

“Who are we this time?”

“The Apollo. For the Greek god of healing, among other things.”

He named the ship after a deity with the power to make her well. Noemi suddenly feels as though she might cry—

—but that’s the fever coming back. She gets emotional when she’s sick. Uncomfortable with her own reaction, she says, “We should’ve told them that I have Cobweb. Before we landed. They’ll be angry when they realize we lied. I can’t walk out there and expose everyone else—”

“It’s all right.” Abel speaks as gently as he might to a frightened child. Why does her voice have to shake? Noemi hates appearing weak nearly as much as she hates feeling weak. “I reported your condition. We’ll be met at the landing pad by a medical team.”

“They know? Then why are they letting us land?” Stronghold doesn’t come across as an oasis of mercy.

“Stronghold wants young people.” Abel pauses. “I listed myself as nineteen, since that is closest to the age I currently appear to be. They give preferential treatment to those who come here under their own power, with their own independent resources. And, ah, they very much want couples who seem likely to bear children.”

“Wait. What?”

No denying it: Abel looks sheepish. “When I determined the criteria most likely to win us landing clearance, I listed us as a young husband and wife. Did I do the wrong thing?”

“But if the doctors figure out I can’t—”

“What you described is unlikely to show up on regular scans. And you’ll be in the hospital. They’ll be helping you. Nothing else matters.”

Noemi imagines these enemy doctors prodding at her—judging her, weighing the value of her life—but knows there’s nowhere else to turn.

The Daedalus settles onto the ground with a soft thump. She stands up—or tries to, because the floor seems to tilt beneath her. When she wavers, Abel steps closer, catching her in his arms. Noemi remembers his offer after Casablanca—the hopeful, gentle look in his eyes as he asked her to come to bed—and feels awkward about being this close to him.…

No. That’s not right. She feels like it should be awkward, but it isn’t. Leaning on Abel feels completely natural.

“Lie down,” he says, easing her back onto the biobed. “The medical team will board our ship. It’s safest that way.”

“I need to see it. Stronghold. I have to see what’s happening.” She’s not sure why. She only knows that she’s confused and afraid, and she can’t stand not knowing exactly where they are.

Abel doesn’t point out that she’s being irrational. Instead he goes to the small wall screen. The grayness flickers back into light and motion, showing what surrounds them.

If Stronghold looked terrifying from space, its surface is even worse.

The sky seems to hang low and cloudless, the same color as the stony ground. Passengers alight from other vessels, but there are no shouted greetings, no music, like with the Vagabonds. They aren’t being welcomed; they’re being herded along the tarmac toward the large granite building from the planetary welcome greeting, or one very like it. Most people are dressed in somber colors like Noemi and Abel, and their expressions are fixed and brittle. She sees some children, at least. But none are very small, and none are being carried or comforted by their parents. They’ve clearly been coached to be on their best behavior, and to stand up straight. One little boy in a putty-colored smock even puffs out his chest, so he’ll look as big and strong as he can. It would be funny at home. Here, the fear behind that gesture pierces Noemi’s heart like an arrow. Once again, she thinks she might cry.

“Noemi?” Abel brushes her hair back from her forehead. “The medical team’s here. I need to let them in.”

“The ship’s plaque,” she whispers. “Don’t let them see it. They can’t know who we really are.”

“It’s all right. I’ll hide it. Shhh. Rest.”

She tries to, closing her eyes. But she’s vividly aware of when Abel leaves sick bay. Everything feels so empty, so scary, so cold.

But within only a minute or two, she hears footsteps thumping in the corridor.

The strangers walk in—a doctor, she thinks, and a George mech, Abel right behind them.

A man in his mid-twenties, wearing a medical coat, comes up to her. He has dark brown skin and eyes, and his voice is gentle as he says, “I’m going to touch your neck to feel your pulse, all right?” She manages to nod, and she feels his fingers press down on the jugular vein. His expression goes from worried to deeply troubled. He turns to the George and says, “This one has to go to Medstation Central. Get us an emergency hovercraft, right away.”

The George pauses. “Single cases can often be treated aboard their own vessels.”

“This one can’t. You tell them Dr. Ephraim Dunaway ordered a hover, now.” As the George scurries off, Dunaway turns back and speaks to Abel, not to her. “Don’t worry. I’m going to take good care of your wife.”

Wife? I’m a wife? Oh, right. Noemi recognizes the disorder in her mind, but wonders how much longer she’ll be able to. If her fever spikes higher, she’ll probably start seeing things. Hallucinating. Losing all control.

Abel’s voice seems to come from very far away. “You seem to be deviating from standard medical procedure.”

Ephraim Dunaway is even more distant. “Yeah, because we’re dealing with an emergency situation here. Are you worried about the money? Don’t be—it’s not like Earth here, you get the treatment you need.”

“It merely strikes me as unusual that you would take a step more likely to expose others to Cobweb.”

“We know what we’re doing here, all right?” Dunaway’s a shadow by her side, no more. He turns his attention back to her as he murmurs, “Relax. We’re going to check you both out, top to bottom.”

Noemi tugs at Abel’s shirt, as close as she can come to protesting without saying a word. This won’t be a cursory once-over like they had on Wayland Station; the kinds of tests they’re about to run will surely reveal Abel to be a mech. And then they’ll be captured—

The emergency vehicle he called for might not take them to a hospital—but to prison.

Or is that paranoia, born of her fever? She can’t tell.

When Abel scoops her up in his arms, Noemi doesn’t struggle. Nor does she resist it when Dunaway slides a paper mask over her nose and mouth. The winding trip down the corridor feels like one long, slow spin until they walk out onto Stronghold’s surface for the first time. She’s caught off guard by the thinness in the air, which leaves her gasping as if she had climbed a mountain. Or is that Cobweb stealing her breath? Abel pulls her a little closer, and she lets her heavy, aching head droop onto his shoulder.

Don’t think about it, she tells herself, as if not dwelling on the potentially fatal illness will make the symptoms go away. Think about something else. Anything.

But there’s no escaping the terrible knowledge of her body’s weakness. “I feel like I can’t move,” she whispers.

“That may only be Stronghold’s gravity. It’s slightly stronger than on Earth or Genesis.”

“I don’t think so.”

Abel doesn’t waste time trying to reassure her. Instead he effortlessly settles her onto the waiting gurney.

If he were human, Noemi would feel guilty about the weight. But she can let go now. She doesn’t have to feel bad about causing problems, for needing too much. Abel could hold her forever.

The fever closes around her again, like the spine-toothed petals of a Venus flytrap. But it’s stronger now, as though angry the drugs cheated it of one wretched hour.

She feels as if she might lose consciousness any moment—and if she falls asleep now, she might never wake again.