“HERE, TAKE A LOOK.” MANSFIELD GESTURES TOWARD his desk, smiling benevolently at Abel. “Might as well see what a real Nobel Prize looks like, shouldn’t you?”

Abel picks it up, testing its heft and softness. “I thought Nobel Prizes were made of pure gold. This is an alloy.”

“Gold’s not so easy to come by these days. Purity either, for that matter. We’re running out.” Mansfield shakes his head. He sits on the velvet sofa of his great room, false firelight reflected onto him by the pendulum of the grandfather clock. Around them, in soft hologram form, stand the members of the Academy at the Nobel Prize ceremony—until it flickers and is replaced by an image of a younger Mansfield, maybe only a year or two older than he was when he abandoned Abel, with his arms around a smiling girl wearing a graduation cap. “Ahh, and here’s Gillian getting her master’s degree at Northwestern. I wish you’d get to see her again, Abel. She was always so entertained by you.”

He remembers Mansfield’s daughter, red-haired and coolly elegant. She wasn’t “entertained” by much—even back then, when he was new, Abel had more of a sense of humor than she did. But Gillian was never unkind or dismissive, the way humans are to many mechs. Her interest always seemed genuine. “Perhaps we’ll meet soon.”

Mansfield gives Abel a searching look, starts to speak, then thinks better of whatever it was he was going to say. “Now, look here. This is her wedding, and there—that’s my first grandchild. What do you think of him, Abel?”

The infant, much larger than life, moves within the hologram—the image was taken while he was snuggling into his blanket. Abel studies the tiny, chubby face, which interests him far more than logic would dictate. “I see you in him. The eyes, certainly. Maybe the chin. Gillian’s features are even more markedly observable.” What else should he say? How can he put into words this strange, happy fascination he feels? “He’s… he’s very cute.”

That makes Mansfield cackle with glee. “Excellent, excellent! Ah, Abel, you’ve come further than I ever would’ve thought. I’m only sorry thirty years in isolation is what it took to bring this out of you.”

It’s as close as Mansfield has come to apologizing for abandoning Abel on the Daedalus. Not that he needs to apologize—he had to save himself, of course, because any human life takes precedence over any mech—but even this small expression of regret soothes Abel tremendously.

As it happens, he needs soothing. Ever since he first saw the workshop, Abel has felt… wary around Mansfield. He’s not entirely sure why, since the workshop follows normal procedure for mech creation. And why should he feel strange when Mansfield is so clearly thrilled to have Abel back home? They’re eating a special meal tonight, something Mansfield had planned for a big occasion. The Sugar mech has even iced a bottle of champagne.

Perhaps he’s not afraid for himself. He remains worried about someone else.

“Father, may I use one of the communications channels?” He smiles and puts his hands behind his back, the way lower mechs do when asking a question. It’s important to make it clear that he isn’t demanding anything, or second-guessing his creator, only asking for a favor. “I’d like to double-check news reports on Stronghold.”

Mansfield chuckles. “Still worried about your girl?”

“She’s not my girl.” Abel knows Noemi doesn’t feel for him what he feels for her. She only just accepted him as a person and not a thing. This bothers him not at all. Merely discovering that he loves her—that he can love her—fills him with gratitude to Mansfield, to Noemi, even to the equipment pod bay. He knows better than to ask for more, and he doesn’t need to. Feeling this is enough. “But she helped me escape. I’d at least like to thank her. Wouldn’t you?”

His question catches Mansfield off guard. “Never thought of it that way. Don’t you think she’s gone home to Genesis?”

“Probably she has.” So few days remain before the Masada Run. Noemi will certainly have returned if she can. But if she can’t, she’ll soon miss her chance to save her friends and, perhaps, her world. “We should make sure she’s not in trouble. That’s the least we owe her.”

Waving his frail, spotted hand, Mansfield nods. “Go on. Check all you like.”

Abel does so, sitting at the station that’s been refitted to look like a nineteenth-century rolltop desk. Although Stronghold’s news accounts mention a “suspected break-in at Medstation Central” and hint that a staffer may be responsible, nothing is said about any capture or arrest. No citizen of Genesis is mentioned. There’s not even a report about an altercation in the spaceport, though surely security monitors must have picked up some of it. And what about the Daedalus? No news of the ship at all.

The longer he searches, the less satisfied Abel is. He had convinced himself that there might be news, mostly because he wanted so badly to know what has happened to Noemi. Apparently he’s evolved the capacity for wishful thinking. Yet he knows that a soldier of Genesis, found on any of the colony worlds or on Earth itself, would immediately be hidden away in a cell so deep no one could ever find her.

Maybe Noemi got away. The ship was right there. The Queen and Charlie were focused only on him; Mansfield told him they wouldn’t go after Noemi.

But Mansfield seems so unconcerned. So certain that Noemi hasn’t been found by the authorities.

Is it possible that Mansfield… lied?

Abel rejects the idea instantly. But he’s aware his objection is emotional, not rational. This, too, is new.

When he returns to the great room, Mansfield remains seated on the velvet sofa, smiling as he watches a hologram of little Gillian playing tea party with her father. He was a younger man then, younger than Abel ever got to know him. “I see the resemblance,” Abel says. If he’s going to lead up to asking Mansfield to let him go back to Stronghold, he needs to make sure Mansfield is in a good mood. Noting the dominant chromosomes in his genetic material seems to please him. “Between you and me. Our similarities are clearer in this holo.”

“Indeed it is. I made you a bit handsomer than I ever was, of course, but kept most of the features the same. After all, we can’t all be Han Zhi.” Mansfield smiles fondly at Abel. “I wanted the continuity between us to be clear.”

One word strikes Abel as odd. “Continuity?”

“I suppose we might as well get to it. Sugar will have dinner ready within the hour, and after that, well, the great adventure begins.”

“What adventure?” Abel doubts his creator is talking about going to Stronghold.

Mansfield settles back on the sofa. “Abel, you’re by far the most sophisticated mech ever created. I can justify you as an experiment, but for anyone else, you’d be illegal to create or own. So why do you think I built you?”

“I always assumed you wanted to expand human knowledge.” Abel remembers sitting in front of Virginia Redbird on Cray, watching her marvel over his complexity, and what she said then. “But I have come to believe you may have some specific purpose in mind for me.”

“I do, my dear boy. Always have. And tonight, that purpose will be fulfilled at last. For thirty years, I thought I’d never see this day.” Mansfield’s voice trembles. “I’d given up all hope. Then you came home just in time.”

Technically Abel was kidnapped and brought back to this place, but he no longer cares. “All hope for what, Father?”

One of Mansfield’s shaky hands strokes Abel’s hair, then catches a lock between two fingers for examination. “To have hair like this again—”

“Father?”

“Your brain is complex enough to contain the knowledge and experiences of a thousand human beings. But what I never knew was whether or not you could contain a mind. A way of thinking. Opinions, beliefs, dreams. Whether you could feel emotion. Now you’ve proved that you can. Finally I know that you’re big enough to hold me, and carry me for the next one hundred and fifty years.”

“—I don’t understand—”

“Consciousness transfer,” Mansfield says. “We’ve understood the technology for a while now, but the problem is, there’s nothing to transfer a human consciousness into. You can’t overlay a human mind on top of another; a few people tried, in the beginning, and the results were disastrous. And other mechs don’t have the capacity to contain anything so… intricate. So subtle. But you do, Abel. Once I wipe your mind completely clean of its existing consciousness, I can transfer myself inside and pick up where you left off. Except this time I’ll be strong, young, and well-nigh invincible. I can’t wait to get started.”

Abel sits motionless, expression unchanging, as the realization sinks in.

He is… a shell. Only a shell. Nothing he has ever thought or felt matters. It never did. Not to Burton Mansfield.

This is his extraordinary purpose. This. Everything he is, everything he’s been and done, will be erased in an instant. Or maybe it won’t be an instant—maybe it will take a long time as Abel lies there, feeling more and more of his consciousness slipping away—

“I thought this through,” Mansfield continues. “I was careful to make sure you wouldn’t mind. Your prime directive tells you to take good care of me, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” Should he have said father? He can’t, not now. “I always want to protect you.”

That wins him a satisfied smile. “Now you’re protecting me from the greatest danger of all—from death. Don’t you think that’s wonderful? Of course you do. Your programming tells you to.”

And it does. It does. Even as Abel struggles with this knowledge, something deep inside him takes satisfaction in the thought of keeping Burton Mansfield safe forever, shielding him within his own skin.

But his thoughts have evolved, these past thirty years. He’s had ideas and feelings that have nothing to do with his programming. He’s had experiences Mansfield could only dream of. Abel remembers Noemi’s voice saying the words that meant so much to him: “You have a soul.”

And also: “Burton Mansfield’s greatest sin was creating a soul and imprisoning it in a machine.”

His body is not a prison. It’s a vehicle. Mansfield will scoop Abel’s soul out and pour his own back in.

“I understand,” Abel replies. He can’t think of anything else to say.

This satisfies Mansfield. “See, I knew you would. We’ll have a delicious dinner tonight; I’d like to treat this body before I discard it forever. Then later on, we’ll head down to the workshop and get started.” His smile widens. “This day will go down in history as one of the greatest scientific achievements of all time. Burton Mansfield defeats death. Worth another Nobel, wouldn’t you think?”

A cough rattles in Mansfield’s throat, then another. As his shoulders shake with the hacking, Abel braces him gently, holding the old man safe while the Tare hurries in from another room. He can’t do anything else. First and foremost, he takes care of Burton Mansfield.

“He needs an oxygen treatment,” the Tare says briskly. “I’ll see to it immediately.”

“The last time for this damned nonsense, at least,” Mansfield wheezes.

Abel nods as he gets to his feet. There’s no reason not to walk away, not while the Tare is tending to Mansfield. So he walks downstairs, into the workshop.

His birthplace, and the place he will die.

What else can he call what’s about to happen, if not his death? Abel’s body will go on, but his body was never what made him special. It was his soul, the soul only Noemi could truly see. That will be destroyed.

The tanks bubble and hiss as Abel walks between them. Now that the sun is setting, the stained glass windows no longer show to good advantage. They’re only dark. Two chairs are settled near a bright corner that could easily be mistaken for a reading nook—but the equipment stored behind them tells a different story. This is where Abel will be invited to take a seat and give up his soul for Burton Mansfield.

I must protect Burton Mansfield. I must obey Burton Mansfield.

What will slip away from him first? His memories of the thirty years in the pod bay? That might not be so bad. The languages he’s learned? Or will it be a feeling?

It hits Abel then—his love for Noemi will be pulled out of him. Destroyed. The love itself will no longer exist.

Protect Burton Mansfield. Obey Burton Mansfield.

Abel turns to look at the opposite wall of the workshop. There’s the back door that leads to the garden, the one he and Mansfield walked through only a brief time ago. Nobody activated the security lock.

Obey Burton Mansfield.

But Mansfield didn’t order Abel to submit to the procedure. He expects it, wishes it, but he hasn’t commanded it—and that loophole in Abel’s programming makes all the difference.

Slowly he walks toward the doorway, expecting to be stopped at any moment. Not by the Tare, not even by Mansfield, but by something deep inside himself, some other fail-safe that will keep him from abandoning his “ultimate purpose.” Instead he keeps going, slowly closes his hand around the knob, and opens the door.

Outside, not so far away, London’s crowds bustle along. They’re just down the hill, not far past the iron gate. Abel can hurdle that in a moment, if he can only begin.

One step.

Then another.

He looks back at the house, at the workshop where he was born, and remembers rising from the tank to look into Mansfield’s delighted face.

Abel turns around and begins to walk, then to walk faster, and finally to run as hard and fast as he can.