THE PATROL ABEL LEADS TOWARD THE THEATER ISN’T large—only six Remedy fighters, five of whom show signs of discontent at being asked to follow a mech. The sixth fighter, however, is Riko, and he hopes their trust in her will translate into a modicum of trust for him.

He can’t stop thinking about the force fields throughout the ship, the ways they may be booby-trapped, and how every single one of them is helping to hold Noemi hostage. She’d attempt to escape if possible—he remembers the cruel way she was suspended in the force field, hating her helplessness nearly as much as she must have—but that would only put her in even greater danger. If she hit the wrong force field—

It’s as though Abel can see it, this horrible thing that may not even happen: the explosion ripping through Noemi, tearing through her skin and bone.

Continue moving, he tells himself. Dwelling on negative possibilities won’t help Noemi.

As they edge their way through the semidark corridors, weapons at the ready, Riko quietly asks, “So you talked to Ephraim?”

“Yes. I reasoned he was the person most likely to be of help to Genesis at that time.”

Riko drops her eyes. “And he seemed—Ephraim was all right?”

“He indicated nothing to the contrary.” Abel reviews his memory files. The expressions on Ephraim’s and Riko’s faces when speaking of each other do not match anticipated reactions for former colleagues, or even friends. He tests this hypothesis by adding, “Ephraim seemed unhappy when he spoke of your departure.”

Riko’s cheeks flush, and Abel has his answer. She must see recognition on his face, because she quickly says, “It didn’t last long. It couldn’t have lasted long. Probably it shouldn’t have happened at all.”

“The two of you are very nearly polar opposites,” Abel says. “When we all parted on Earth, I was under the strong impression you didn’t even like each other.”

This wins him a sidelong glance from Riko. “Noemi’s a soldier from Genesis. You’re a mech from Earth. I bet you guys didn’t hit it off at first either.”

Abel and Noemi met while trying to kill each other. “Your point is well taken.”

“I’m just glad he’s all right. That’s all.” Riko winces and rubs her temple. “Thinking about this is giving me a headache.”

Loud clattering around the curve of the corridor alerts Abel only a fraction of a second before the humans hear it, too. As he rounds the corner, Abel brings up his blaster—

And stops. The damaged mechs before him aren’t combat models. Williams are musical performers; Sugars are cooks. Obviously they aren’t part of the passengers’ attack team, but then what are they do—

The Sugar’s fist connects with Abel’s gut before his sensors have fully registered the motion. He slams into the wall, hard, his blaster falling to clatter at his feet; he’s thrown off as much by surprise as by the force of the blow.

Stunned, he attempts to collect himself. How is a Sugar in warrior mode? She shouldn’t be programmed for that.

But now the William’s on him, barreling toward Abel at full speed. This time Abel manages to duck out of the way, but his confusion has intensified. Non-warrior mechs should not fight beyond very basic defense of humans—hardly more than a push or a shove—but the Sugar has picked up a heavy metal bar from the debris and seems intent on beating Abel to bolts.

She swings. Abel catches the bar in his open palm, ignoring the impact that sends pain shooting from his wrist to his shoulder. He closes his fist around the bar and pulls it backward, hard; the Sugar doesn’t let go, which means he slams her into the ceiling. Her body drops to the floor, twitching erratically. Only now does he see that the entire back half of her head is missing.

The William charges again, and Abel swings the bar around to strike him in the hip, collapsing the joint; as the William model falls, he bashes its head. It drops beside the Sugar, completely still.

“Is that all they’ve got?” says one of the Remedy fighters, with so much bravado he seems to believe he was part of this fight. “If those are the only mechs the passengers can send after us, they’re down to nothing.”

“Perhaps.” Abel frowns as he rises from the destroyed Sugar and William and reclaims his blaster. “But the larger group of mechs still lies ahead.”

According to Abel’s instrumentation, the mech patrol is very close, but still on the other side of the nearby theater, perhaps two levels down. He hurries faster through the corridor, motioning for the others to follow.

One quick jump brings him to the level of the stage door, which he’s able to pry open with both hands. Abel slides through the narrow opening into near-total darkness; only a few emergency lights at the very bottom of the theater shine at all. He adjusts his visual frequencies to assess the area. The stage itself hangs above him, a gaping space with its old-fashioned velvet curtains drooping beneath. While theater seats remain in mostly neat rows at his head level, underneath the tiers of balconies curve across each level, an image reminiscent of a nautilus shell. The acoustic curve of the theater’s ceiling has become a bowl-like floor many meters down.

As Abel prepares an estimate of the exact distance, he hears the banging of a door, and a thud—like someone dropping from that overhead door onto one of the lowest balconies. More noise follows, footsteps multiplying upon one another: The mech patrol has infiltrated the theater. Soon they’ll attempt to punch through to Remedy territory.

Instead, Abel intends to punch through them—and clear his way to Noemi.

Without waiting for the other Remedy members to climb through the door, he pulls his blaster, magnifies his targets, and begins to fire.

A Tare model, head badly damaged, somehow operational as it rounds the curve of the balcony: One shot from his blaster and it goes down in a spray of sparks and blood.

A Charlie, completely intact but unarmed, running with great speed and direction—but not toward a door: Abel fires, takes that one down, too.

“What’s going on?” Riko demands from her place below.

“I have no more data than you do.”

“Is that robot for ‘how would I know’?”

“No, although that question is entirely valid.” Abel focuses his main attention on the jumble of mechs in the darkness beneath, whose movements make no sense but are too controlled to be random.

They’re not yet trying to get through to Remedy territory. These mechs have some other target.

Keeping his blaster ready, he swings the crosshairs forward to the very front of the group, past the far end of the spiral of mechs, all the way to their target.

The human backlit by the distant emergency beacon glow is approximately five feet six inches in height, female-presenting, with chin-length black hair. Her build—her movements—even the way she runs—

Abel goes through all the measurements, because he must be sure. He can’t trust his own sensory input; surely it’s only showing him what he wants so badly to see.

But every detail lines up.

Identification confirmed.

Abel leans through the door and shouts, “Noemi!”

She pauses for one instant, her expression unreadable. That moment is almost enough for the other mechs to catch her, but she begins running again even as she yells back, “Abel?”

Within 0.72 seconds, he’s assessed every possible means of rescue and made his decision. He leaps from his vantage point at the stage, plummeting at such an angle that he’s able to grab one of the golden curtain ropes on his way down, tugging the end down after him.

His feet land on the curved surface beneath as silently and gracefully as a cat. Immediately Abel vaults up to the next level, his path intersecting with Noemi’s. She’s running toward him, a shadow and then herself. When she flings herself into his arms, they collide so hard he nearly loses his footing.

She’s here. She’s with me. It is the simplest, most basic of facts, and yet Abel has to register it over and over. His consciousness can’t fully process her presence after so many months of longing; he should run a diagnostic later. For now he can only hold on to her.

Noemi gasps so sharply that he first thinks she’s in pain—but she swings up her blaster and fires behind him. When Abel turns he sees a King mech within two meters of them smoldering and stumbling backward. She destroyed it only a second before it would have destroyed them. His reaction to seeing Noemi again has overridden his most basic safety protocols. They must leave the area of immediate risk before his malfunction endangers them further.

“Hold on to me,” he says. She does. He jumps back down to the rope and grabs it; Noemi doesn’t have to be told to hang on to his back. They’ve been here before. As fast as possible, he climbs hand over hand, lifting them both up and away from the strange broken mechs below.

When at last they reach the top, Abel swings them onto a small balcony, only a few feet below the Remedy members. At first Noemi falls to her knees, breathing hard, as if unable to believe her own perceptions either. When he stoops beside her, though, she clutches him close—and finally, finally, he’s in Noemi’s arms again.

She buries her face in the curve of his neck, a sensation so trusting and tender that he can think of nothing else. He hugs her tighter and revels in the sight and sound and shape of her. This one moment is more joy than he ever thought to have again.

“Abel,” Noemi whispers, and she pulls back. Their faces are close in the darkness, and he remembers their one kiss with fresh vividness. “What are you doing here?”

“Retrieving you, of course.”

“You shouldn’t have come after me. Mansfield—when he realizes you’re here—” She pauses. “He’s about to die. Any day. Any hour. He’s completely desperate.”

Directive One throbs like pain within him, commanding him to save his creator, but Abel ignores it. “Whatever risk I faced couldn’t compare to the danger you were in. I had to find you.”

Noemi laughs once, though tears are filling her eyes. “So you just found a hidden spaceship and a hidden Gate and a hidden planet? No big deal?”

“I had to come,” he says. For him, it’s that simple.

This time her laugh sounds more like a sob, and she hugs him even more tightly than before.

Abel wonders again if he was damaged in the fight, because his thinking remains disordered. Her embrace overrides his ability to concentrate on anything else.

Or maybe this is simply an effect of extreme happiness. Maybe this is what humans experience as joy.

“What’s going on down there?” yells Riko. The bubble of unreality around them pops, reminding him of the many dangers of their situation. Normal function must return.

“I’ve retrieved Noemi,” Abel calls back. “We’ll need to take another path back to the bridge, but we’ll rejoin you shortly.”

“Noemi? Hi!”

“Riko?” Noemi laughs brokenly, in disbelief. “We’ll be right there.”

Together they get to their feet. She’s breathing hard, clearly taxed to human limits of endurance. A wave of protectiveness sweeps over him. “We need to get off this planet,” Abel says.

“You think?” Her smile is even more beautiful than he’d remembered.

Together they pick their way from that balcony into another corridor, one significantly more damaged than most of the others Abel’s passed through so far. The temperature is 2.2 degrees Celsius colder, which suggests a nearby hull breach. He adjusts his assessment of the wreck again and posits that the most severely affected part of the Osiris must be nearby. This information is chiefly important, as it affects Noemi’s well-being.

Her concentration focuses on something besides the deepening chill. “Genesis—Cobweb—were you able to—”

“I contacted Ephraim. He’s working to get the drugs, to get as many members of Remedy involved as possible.” Abel pauses to lift a broken strut and clear their path; Noemi walks under his upstretched arms. More destroyed mechs litter the floor, but he tries not to register them. “Harriet and Zayan are helping him arrange transports from sympathetic Vagabonds. And some of the Razers on Cray are searching their bioengineering labs for the modified Cobweb virus.”

Noemi blinks. “That’s—oh, my God, that’s amazing.” Her smile begins to return. “And Remedy’s really mobilizing to help?”

“For a mass mobilization, Ephraim would need relay codes he doesn’t possess. However, Captain Fouda has them, and is willing to trade them for my help in pacifying the ship.”

“Trade? He wants to trade with billions of lives on the—” She catches herself. “Okay. We do this thing, then we get back and tell the whole galaxy about Haven. They tried to hide Haven, but we won’t let them get away with it. Vagabonds, people on Stronghold, even the citizens of Earth—they deserve to know this world exists.”

A set of calculations he’s been running for several hours now requires discussion. “Haven’s existence has the potential to affect the Liberty War.”

“It could change everything.” Noemi has apparently done the same calculations, and her human imagination has taken them further. “Yeah, Haven’s cold—but it’s habitable, and it’s beautiful. Millions of people could live here. Millions, maybe even billions! If there’s another home for humanity, and the galaxy knows it? They don’t have to conquer Genesis. We could even take in people then, freely—whoever chooses our way of life—oh, Abel, this could be the answer to everything.”

He wants to caution her that absolutely nothing can be the answer to everything. Earth has to have hidden this planet for a reason, one he has been unable to extrapolate. Also, if there are more pockets of toxicity like the one he flew over on his way here, that means some areas of Haven won’t support human life.

But then Noemi hugs him again, and these sensible objections are sorted as irrelevant. He wants to store every sensation, every emotion, every millisecond. Despite all the tragedy and terror around them, he’s been reunited with the girl he loves, and nothing can fully diminish the wonder of that.

Abel is of course aware that Noemi doesn’t love him, at least not in the same way he loves her. This, too, is irrelevant. As he understands it, love is not transactional; it is a thing freely given. The joy is in the giving.

(Many human forms of entertainment seem to misrepresent this, but their information is of course inferior to actual experience, and so he disregards them.)

His absorption in her is interrupted by the sound of rustling overhead, within the damaged, twisted metal above. Noemi hears it, too, and they take a step back from each other as they look up.

To Abel’s immense relief, the small figure peering down through the wreckage is Simon. He remains alive, and has even managed to find clothing. This shows attention to normal human social cues, no doubt a sign that Simon’s soul is adapting to its new body. His… nephew can still be saved.

“Noemi,” he says, “this is—”

“I know who it is.” Her entire body has tensed. When their eyes meet, she whispers, “I realize what this means for you, but Simon—I think there’s something wrong.”

She has reacted too strongly to Simon’s unfinished appearance. Humans are sometimes overly influenced by visual stimuli. Abel takes her hand, intending to comfort her and facilitate a conversation between her and Simon.

But then Simon giggles, a high-pitched, off-kilter sound. “Peekaboo,” he says. “Peekaboo!”

This alone should tell Abel nothing. But he has human instinct now, and that instinct is telling him Noemi may not be entirely incorrect.

He doesn’t yet know what Simon is, only that Simon is not as he should be.