THIRTY YEARS OF SOLITUDE, ENDED IN A FLASH. WITH his first glimpse of the intruder, Abel is—at last—no longer alone.
Every command in his programming says he must kill the new human on board. He fully intends to do so. But for one overpowering, rapturous moment, Abel wants nothing more than to hear her voice, to see her, to revel in the presence of another.
Replaying the .412 seconds of visual data he has indicates that this is most likely a her—an adolescent, female-presenting human approximately 168 centimeters or five feet six inches in height, of primarily Latin American and Polynesian ancestry, with chin-length black hair, brown eyes, the dark-green exosuit of a Genesis soldier, and a Mark Eight blaster that is—to judge by the wavelength of the beams that just sliced through the air—at approximately 45 percent charge.
Given that he must kill the intruder shortly, the data about the blaster is the most relevant. Abel saw two fighters entering the landing bay, but only one soldier has infiltrated the ship. Therefore, his earlier analysis of the situation was correct: One pilot is severely injured, and the other wants to reach sick bay in order to provide assistance.
But she cannot be allowed to do so, because Burton Mansfield may be in cryosleep inside. Immediately after arming himself, Abel shut off all communications systems, both internal and external, to isolate the Genesis pilots. Therefore, no reinforcements will arrive. His opponent is alone and desperate. In such conditions, humans become reckless. If he keeps her from her goal, she will go to extreme lengths to reach sick bay—and in so doing, weaken her position.
Abel thinks through the intruder’s options, makes a decision. Instead of prolonging their firefight, he turns and runs toward sick bay. He’s fast enough to reach the door before the first blaster bolt hits the wall nearby, and to get inside before she can pursue. As soon as the sick bay door slides shut behind him, he wheels around, locks the door, and…
… stops.
His programming is clear. Check the cryosleep pods. Look for Mansfield.
But his emotional processes appear to have morphed considerably during his thirty years, because he doesn’t want to turn around to look at sick bay.
Yes, he might find out that Burton Mansfield is here—but he might also find out that Mansfield is long gone, or long dead. He’s borne the suspense for so long that he finds himself afraid of certainty. He wants to stay in this box with Schrödinger’s cat forever.
Lights around the door lock begin to flash, warning him of a power surge. As Abel had anticipated, the intruder has set her blaster to maximum in an effort to blow the lock. Within ninety seconds, the door will open. After overload, the Genesis warrior will have only one or two shots left in her weapon. Although Abel is confident he can dodge those shots, she might miss and hit the cryosleep pods.
The risk breaks his hesitation. Abel turns and looks.
All signs indicate the cryosleep pods are not in use. Verify.
As the faint whine of the overloading blaster slides to a higher pitch, Abel moves to the panels and double-checks. Confirmed. Nobody lies in any of the cryosleep chambers. It does not appear they were ever activated.
The Daedalus’s human passengers, including Burton Mansfield, abandoned ship thirty years ago, and they have never come back.
“They can’t get their hands on the Gate readouts,” said Captain Gee. On the viewscreen dome of the bridge, the Genesis fighters blew up another Damocles, a few hundred mechs smashed in an instant. “You, there. Mech. Extract the hard memory elements, launch them through the Gate, now.”
Abel turned to obey the senior officer aboard, but stopped as Mansfield said, “We’re not abandoning ship without Abel.”
Captain Gee snapped, “If the thing can get to the docking bay in time to leave with us, great! If not, just build another one!”
Few people spoke to Burton Mansfield that way. He drew himself upright, and his deep voice seemed to fill the darkness of the bridge. “Abel is different—”
“It’s a machine! I’ve got human lives here to save.” Captain Gee turned toward Abel, frowning when she realized he hadn’t budged. “Is it not working?”
Abel hesitated one instant longer as Mansfield looked at the enormous star field view through the screen that covered two walls and the entire domed ceiling of the bridge. The tide of battle had turned. Genesis would have the day—and, shortly, this ship, if they wanted it.
The Daedalus itself shuddered as it took its first direct weapons fire. Quietly Mansfield said, “Abel, go. Hurry.”
And Abel ran as fast as he could, removed the relevant hard data elements from the computer core quicker than any human ever could have, carried it to the equipment pod bay within four minutes, and launched it at the direct center of the Gate with no delays. He even closed and sealed the outer pod bay doors before the gravity and power snapped off, stranding him in a dark, weightless void.
The whine of the blaster outside has risen a full octave. Abel stares at the empty shells of the cryosleep pods on the wall, as translucent as cicada husks in the reddish emergency lights, then takes up his own weapon again as he turns toward the door.
Sparks flash white; the metal door jerks open amid puffs of smoke. Abel steps out of range, out of sight. Nobody fires. From the total silence, he surmises that the Genesis soldier isn’t even moving.
He knows how little firepower she has left. She does as well. One shot, maybe two. The intruder needs the supplies in this sick bay so badly she effectively disarmed herself to get in here—but now she has to finish him off with a single blast. That opportunity is one he doesn’t have to give her. Abel could easily wait in sick bay to kill her for hours, days, another thirty years if need be. He doesn’t even have to sleep.
(Although he can, and does. During the last thirty years he’s slept quite a lot. Abel has even begun to dream, a development he would very much like to discuss with Burton Mansfield.
Someday.)
But his programming calls for a different plan of action now.
Abel walks away from the cryosleep pods, deliberately treading heavily enough for his opponent to hear. She knows he’s coming, and she won’t fire immediately; instead she’s hanging on for the kill shot at close range.
So he deliberately steps into view at the far end of sick bay, where enough smoke swirls that the Genesis soldier will hold off for another moment.
That’s all he needs to turn his own blaster around, surrendering the weapon to her.
She stares. She’s braced with her back against the wall, blaster held with both hands, shaking. Humans are so excitable. A few strands of her chin-length black hair cling to her sweaty forehead and cheek. Although her brown eyes widen when he keeps walking forward, she doesn’t panic. Doesn’t fire.
“My name is Abel,” he says. “Model One A of the Mansfield Cybernetics mech line. My programming dictates that I am bound to serve the highest human authority aboard this vessel. As of now, that authority is you.”
He holds out the weapon. When she doesn’t take it, he simply sets it on the floor and kicks it toward her. It feels so good to be able to obey his programming again. To have a purpose.
Abel smiles. “What are my orders?”