DURING THE SWIFT RIDE ACROSS STRONGHOLD’S BAR-ren gray terrain, distant cities of metal and stone no more than shadows on the horizon, Abel had calculated that the probability Dr. Ephraim Dunaway was acting purely out of medical necessity was no higher than 32.4 percent.

Now they’re at the medical center, an isolated dome of concrete. Noemi is being wheeled into an examination room, with Abel at her side. A Tare model waits for them both, medscanner in hand.

Abel has readjusted his estimate. He now believes there is only a 27.1 percent chance that Dr. Dunaway is acting out of pure necessity.

He’s attentive, yes—but too attentive, as though he had to get every reading or measurement he could while they were still inside the medtram hovering just above the rocky surface. Also, Abel notices, Dunaway inputs every piece of data twice: once in what looks like the standard equipment, once into a personal handheld device. There is no rational explanation for this that does not ascribe another, unknown agenda to Dunaway’s behavior.

For the time being, however, Noemi is being adequately seen to, and that must be enough.

Once she’s lying in her clinical bed, she’s wrapped in silvery blankets and temperature monitors are stuck to the insides of her wrists. The Tare model goes to her, then frowns. “I would have run the first in-depth scan, Dr. Dunaway. Your readings on the medtram could have been compromised.”

“But they weren’t.” Ephraim Dunaway remains beside Noemi’s bed, carefully checking the thin white lacy marks spreading across her shoulder and throat. “This patient’s seriously ill. I didn’t want to waste time.”

“Following established procedures is not a waste of time,” the Tare says, but there’s no emotion behind the words. She walks across the sterile white cube of the examination room toward Abel. “You report no ill health at this time, but Cobweb becomes contagious hours or days before symptoms are apparent. You will require a full exam.”

From her bed, Noemi groans. “No—Abel, don’t—”

“It’s all right,” Abel says. But she’s supposed to be his wife. He should use an endearment. So he chooses one of Humphrey Bogart’s favorites: “Honey.”

With a gesture, the Tare model urges Abel to sit down on the room’s other medical bed. “We should begin,” she says. He takes his place, and when the Tare brings out her light he obediently holds his eyes open wide, like any other patient.

Unlike any other patient, he configures the components in his eyes to project back to the Tare model exactly what she’d expect to see in a healthy human. He has a pulse, though it’s normally undetectable by touch, so a quick increase in his blood pressure is called for as she holds her fingers to his neck. When she goes to measure the blood pressure itself, however, he takes it down to roughly what she’d be expecting. For diagnostic ease, mech veins line the inner arm, just where draws are always taken. His blood will look normal and test negative for viruses; his skin is stronger, but not so much that it draws the Tare’s attention as she takes his sample.

He doesn’t have to do anything with the ears. Those look just like a human’s.

If she were running high-level diagnostic tests, Abel’s masquerade would break down within seconds. But Tare models, intelligent as they are, have all been programmed for efficiency and triage. She won’t waste time performing in-depth tests on what appears to be a completely healthy human male.

“Open your mouth,” the Tare says as she approaches with a swab. Abel does so, although this is the only one of her tests he’ll fail. His DNA is partially artificial, which means it won’t culture at all—though that on its own is most likely to be written off as a storage error. Genetic anomalies will show up, but the single-minded Tare will probably write those off as irrelevant and fail to investigate more deeply.

Noemi stares at him, wide-eyed, so astonished it’s funny. Later he’ll tell her how he accomplished all this. Maybe it will make her laugh. For now she sinks down onto her pillow with a deep sigh of relief. Abel realizes she had been frightened for him—well, for them both, since his exposure would also have threatened her. Nevertheless, it’s pleasant to see her being concerned. No one has been concerned about him in a very long time.

Not since Mansfield… who put considerable energy into making sure Abel couldn’t be detected as a mech if he didn’t so choose. It’s an odd utility to have; no other mechs can do it. Maybe Mansfield was only curious to see if it could be done.

“You’ll have to remain here, under observation,” the Tare says to Abel as she turns back to prepping Noemi’s tests, to see that they’re already laid out for her. She frowns at young Dr. Dunaway, who seems to have violated procedures again. “In twenty-five hours, if your culture is negative and you’ve showed no symptoms, you’ll be sent into T and E.”

“What’s that?” Noemi’s voice has become hoarse.

“Training and evaluation.” Ephraim Dunaway moves a step backward as the Tare finally takes over Noemi’s examination. “Everybody goes through it when they first get to Stronghold. They figure out what you’re good at, let you know what kind of work you’re eligible to do here.”

“What about the children we saw on the tarmac?” Noemi says. “What about them?”

Surprisingly, the Tare answers this one. “If they’re physically fit to live on Stronghold, they may remain. They’re given simpler and lighter work assignments until they’re ready for adult labor.”

Abel doubts many assignments on Stronghold count as simple or light.

Dunaway adds, “Once we’ve cleared him, Abel can go on ahead in a day, and you can follow as soon as you’re well.”

Is Dunaway’s confidence based on Noemi’s condition, or is he faking it to provide comfort to the patient? Probably the latter, Abel thinks.

The Tare concludes her examination with a firm nod. “Cobweb, tertiary stage, not irreversible but serious. Standard antiviral treatments are the only measure available.”

Ephraim Dunaway nods as he pulls out vials of what must be antiviral drugs. Abel takes some comfort in the fact that finally Noemi is receiving meaningful help.

“I should lock this room down for quarantine for both the patient and the exposed individual,” the Tare says.

But Dunaway interjects, “There are other patients you should see to. I’ll take care of locking down the room.” The Tare frowns, obviously confused by another change from standard procedure.

Abel decides that a human husband would ask more questions. “You haven’t told me how long Noemi will take to recover. What is her prognosis?”

“Recovery from Cobweb is not guaranteed,” the Tare reports, as easily as she might recite someone’s blood type.

Ephraim interjects, “Hey. We’ve got a strong young woman here, nowhere near as sick as some Cobweb cases we’ve seen. No need to worry about the worst-case scenario, okay?” He smiles at Noemi and Abel in turn. “I’m going to look after her personally. I promise.”

Abel believes him, but again he senses that Dunaway has… uncertain priorities.

The Tare tilts her head. Abel notes the slight tug-of-war between mech and human. Maybe he should be on the mech’s side, but Ephraim Dunaway—regardless of what other intentions he may have—remains the one who cares whether Noemi lives or dies.

If Abel ever gets the chance to speak with Burton Mansfield again, he’ll ask whether the Tare models couldn’t use a compassion upgrade. A tact upgrade would also be advisable.

Noemi holds out her hand to Abel. She’s acting the part of a loving wife, even as she lies there racked with fever, her skin pale and her gaze unfocused. “You’re staying here?”

“Yes. Right here,” Abel promises. “Right by your side.”

He doesn’t want to be anywhere else. After spending three decades utterly alone, he’s been with Noemi during virtually all her waking moments the past several days. Even when they had disliked each other, even when she had treated him as a hostile, he has feasted on the experience of being with a person once more, someone who spoke words he’d never heard, did things he’d never witnessed. That, by itself, had been a luxury he would never take for granted again. She set him free.

But she isn’t just a human who happened along to open the pod bay doors. Noemi is the only person he’s truly been close to besides Mansfield. Abel never expected to feel so attached to anyone else. He knows it’s partly a trick of his programming, seeking a source for all the devotion he can’t give to his creator.

But only partly.

“You need to rest,” Ephraim says to her. “I’m going to give you a light sedative, okay? The more you can sleep, the more your body can do its job of getting you well.”

Noemi doesn’t care for the idea of being drugged, Abel can tell. But she nods. She must feel even worse than she looks.

As Ephraim readies the sedative, she says, “Abel—what we talked about, when we first set out—” Her deep brown eyes search his. “You know how to finish up without me. You would, right?”

Once she gave him orders to destroy the Genesis Gate after her death, if necessary. Now she’s asking him as her equal.

“I would,” Abel confirms, squeezing her hand. “But I won’t have to. You’ll recover soon.”

Would a husband kiss his wife before she went to sleep? Just as Abel decides he would, Noemi’s eyelids drift shut, and her head lolls to one side.

Ephraim takes Abel’s arm. “Come on. You ought to rest, too. I know you’re worried about her, but you’ve been exposed to Cobweb, too. This is no time to run yourself ragged.”

“Yes, of course.” But Abel looks back over his shoulder at Noemi even as Ephraim helps him into his own bed.

“It’s going to be okay.” Ephraim moves differently now that the Tare model has left the examination room—his strides are longer, his voice firmer. His posture has shifted so that he stands taller. “The Tare models aren’t exactly comforting, but they know their stuff. Besides, I’m on the case, too. Noemi’s going to get the best care.”

Abel isn’t sure why this young doctor would be so committed to Noemi’s well-being only minutes after meeting her, but humans often do things for illogical reasons. He decides the motivation doesn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that someone with the correct training and access will be working hard to make Noemi well.

But he will, in the end, discover this man’s true motives. If Noemi’s recovery stalls for any reason—if even one drug she’s given seems inappropriate—Ephraim Dunaway and all the rest will learn exactly what Abel’s capable of.

“I realize it’s pretty dull in here.” Ephraim shrugs sadly at the bare-bones room. “No vids, no books, but hey, at least you can sleep. Basic toiletries are in this box if you need them, that door leads to the toilet, and this is the assistance panel—push it if you feel the slightest bit sick.” This is punctuated with a tap on a square panel within arm’s reach of the bed. “We’d rather respond to a false alarm than miss the chance to intervene early in a Cobweb case, okay?”

“Understood.”

Ephraim nods. His attention is now drifting from the present moment. Something more important lies ahead. “All right. I’ll drop by later to check in on Noemi.”

“Thank you,” Abel says, not meaning it. He will be able to assess the changes in Noemi’s medical readouts for himself. Ephraim Dunaway turns out the overhead lights as he leaves. Now Abel and Noemi are alone again, illuminated by the faint green glow of the readouts above her bed. Her breathing is deep and even; Abel takes what comfort he can from this.

If he doesn’t fall into a recursive loop of worrying about Noemi, he can turn his primary mental functions to a more useful purpose, namely, coming up with a plan of action they can execute upon her recovery. If she gets better within the next few days, they’ll have time to carry out her plan, preventing the Masada Run and destroying the Gate. But their margin of safety grows narrower by the day. He should plan and prepare as much as possible so he and Noemi can get started immediately.

He closes his eyes and envisions the layout of the landing bay and the spaceport, the course taken by the medtram to the hospital. It’s a partial blueprint only, but sufficient for him to get Noemi back to the Daedalus, which is the most important thing.

Next, he needs to figure out how to capture a mech.

Abel feels no inner conflict about this. He knows there’s an enormous gap between his mental complexity and the duller circuits of any other mech model in existence; Mansfield explained it thoroughly, and Abel’s own efforts to speak with other mechs proved it true. An advanced mech can and should be obtained. The Queens and Charlies he’s glimpsed on Stronghold so far clearly serve as military police. They’re found in groups and carry blasters as sidearms. A Tare model, however—smart enough, but with no combat capabilities, its strength level only comparable to that of a human—

Abel catches himself. He’s not just thinking through his orders so he can do what Noemi wishes. He actually wants to destroy the Genesis Gate.

The main reason he wants to help her is because he thinks she’s right.

Mansfield would not have agreed with that, but—Abel begins to smile as he realizes it—he doesn’t agree with Mansfield. He can be completely loyal and devoted to his creator and yet have different opinions. Is this what it means to have a soul? To be a person and not a thing?

Maybe it is.

Abel stands in the Daedalus’s docking bay with the thermomagnetic device in his hands. He looks down in the small, silvery starfighter that’s about to sail toward the Genesis Gate.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” Mansfield says. He sits in the fighter, not making any move to get out, and yet there’s no mistaking how badly he wants out. “I shouldn’t be here at all.”

“You can do anything.” Abel hands over the device. “You’ll make it through and destroy the Gate.”

“But if the Gate’s destroyed, how will we get home?” Mansfield reaches up to Abel with one hand, a gesture so plaintive that it makes Abel doubt himself. Maybe someone else could fly the fighter.

“There’s no one else,” says the Queen. She stands in front of the door; behind it, Abel can hear Noemi yelling and pounding to get in.

The bay doors spiral open, revealing space beyond it. But they’re not next to the Gate; they’re in front of Kismet’s blue sun. Abel wonders if he should look for Esther there. If he could find her, he could bring her home to Noemi.

Then he realizes his hands are covered with blood, just like they were when he carried Esther to sick bay in the first place, which reminds him that Esther’s dead—

He jolts awake.

Abel is always somewhat surprised by his dreams—it’s a kind of input he’s not designed to process. Dream logic bears little resemblance to reality; he knows that much. But what would Freudian analysis make of the dreams of a mech?

He lies on his bunk in the dark for a long time after that. His memory keeps going back to the hurt on Mansfield’s face, and Abel’s cruelty in sending him out into the Gate. How could he have turned against his creator, even in a dream?