Then the curved metal plates of the entryway spiral open.
What they reveal is chaos. The spaceport is crowded and noisy, and it stinks of grease and sweat. Hundreds of people jumble together, struggling to pass along paths and bridges far too narrow for the crowds. The clothes they wear are brilliantly colored but odd, motley pieces thrown together without regard for function, most of them worn or even threadbare. The ships docked nearby look as ramshackle as their owners, now that she sees them up close. Even to Noemi, who’s used to Genesis’s aging fleet, the vessels around them seem more likely to collapse than fly. Screens and holos have been crammed into every corner, hung from every one of the naked metal beams overhead. It’s almost like the screens are important, but Noemi can tell they’re only showing ads. Over and over. Music and slogans blaring so loud they drown out every human voice—
And now, walking up to them, is a mech.
Her memory responds instantly. George model. Designed for work requiring middling intelligence and a high threshold for boredom. Most often deployed in bureaucratic roles.
Darius Akide would be proud of her for remembering all of that. He wouldn’t be proud, though, of the shudder that passes through her as she looks at the George for the first time. Although it looks like his hairstyle has been changed from the old models, in every other way the George appears exactly the way he does in the old images. He’s slightly stocky, with pale skin and brown hair.
What gets her are the eyes.
The George’s eyes are a bland shade of green, but somehow they’re… empty. Like a doll’s eyes, except when Noemi was little she imagined that her dolls loved her back. Nobody could even pretend a soul lay behind the George’s empty face. What sits within its metal skull is a nest of wiring and computer memory. Circuits and signals. No soul.
However, the George does nothing more unsettling than hold up a datapad to get an image of their faces. “Name of vessel?”
“The Medusa,” Abel says. “Named after the mythological female who took pleasure in turning men to stone.”
Noemi decides she’s going to believe he chose that name at random. The only alternative is punching him in the nose, which would probably tip off the George that something was wrong.
“The Medusa. Confirmed.” Abel’s fake ID for their ship held. Good. “Names of human occupants?”
She tries to sound casual. “Noemi Vidal.”
“Abel Mansfield,” Abel says smoothly. Was he programmed to take on his creator’s surname, or was that something he could choose to do?
The last name doesn’t trigger any more reaction than their pictures did, because the George mech nods. “Earth nations of origin?”
Noemi hesitates only a moment before deciding to use the birthplace of her ancestors. “Chile.”
Abel says, “Great Britain.” Maybe that’s where he was created.
“You are hereby cleared for up to six days’ stay on Wayland Station. Please prepay your first day’s docking fee, which is nonrefundable.” The George hands over a small, dark dataread, which begins to glow with scrolling information. Abel immediately inputs whatever info the dataread needs to show they’ve paid for the right to put their ship down. They’ve passed inspection. Nobody’s coming for Abel; nobody’s caught on to her. They made it.
She ought to be relieved. To want to cheer her victory. But the chaos around her, the noise and grime and unmistakable sense of desperation—
Noemi has never felt so far from home.
The George points left, toward a long line of brightly clothed Vagabonds. “Report for Cobweb screening and final clearance. Have a pleasant stay.”
As they start walking toward the others, Noemi goes on tiptoe to whisper in Abel’s ear. “Cobweb screening? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” He clearly hates admitting that; she wishes she were less freaked out, so she could enjoy his displeasure. “I could only speculate.”
“Okay, speculate.”
“To judge by the fact that health care supplies seem to be stored here”—Abel gestures toward crates with the telltale green cross on them—“this seems most likely to be some sort of medical screening.”
“Medical screening?” Noemi grabs his arm as if to tug him back. His body feels startlingly human. Will that be enough to fool a medical doctor, or are they about to get caught?
But there’s no more time to discuss. Already attendants in pale green have stepped close to pull them apart.
Panic rises in her throat, and she wants to cling to Abel—a machine, and a hostile, superior one—all she has to rely on in a strange solar system, on a mission of the greatest importance and danger.
No, she thinks, standing up straighter and letting go of Abel of her own free will. I can rely on myself. The mission might’ve changed, but I haven’t. I can do this.
They’re led without ceremony into a large tented area, where Vagabonds of various ages, genders, and races are all dropping their clothes for inspection. Noemi’s never been particularly shy about her body, but there’s something so cold about this. The doctors or nurses calling them forward to be looked over show no compassion or concern; they’re not here to take care of the Vagabonds, just to sort through them.
Once she’s undressed, holding her gray clothing wadded under one arm, she stands in line like the others. The girl standing next to her seems to be roughly her own age, tall and dark-skinned, with long braids that fall to her waist and a body so skinny her ribs show. She’s not the only one in line that thin. But there’s something about her eyes that seems… gentle, maybe. At any rate, Noemi decides to take a chance and whispers, “Hey—what’s Cobweb?”
“You don’t know?” The girl has a lilting, beautiful accent. “You’re new to this Vagabonding thing, huh? Don’t guess they talk about it much on Earth.”
“Not much,” Noemi says. “And, uh, very new.”
Although this girl still looks dubious, she explains, “It’s a nasty virus. The worst. Gives you the chills something fierce, and breaks veins all over your body. You get this weird rash with white lines everywhere. So it looks like you’re wearing a spiderweb, see?”
Noemi nods. The strangeness of speaking to someone from another planet has begun to fade. This person isn’t an enemy or an alien—she’s just a person. A nice one, even. “The name makes sense.”
“Point is, Cobweb’s contagious, and it can be deadly if you don’t catch it in time.” The girl’s expression darkens for a moment as she shakes her braids free of the scarf she’d worn around her head. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”