“Of course not. You’re my commander. I serve you. Therefore, I would be the more logical choice to take on sex work.” Abel should’ve kept on the nicer clothing he’d worn earlier; brothel owners would’ve seen his body displayed to better advantage. Regardless, he feels sure to be hired. “I’ve been programmed with virtually all of the skills held by other mechs, including the Fox and Peter models. My repertoire of sexual positions and techniques far exceeds those of virtually any human, and my physical form was designed to maximize both visual and tactile appeal.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Noemi shakes her head in consternation. A slender young woman with short black hair, dressed like resort staff, has wandered toward them while working on her datapad, and Noemi is obviously choosing her words carefully to keep from giving away too much of their story. “Abel, I can’t let you… sell your body.”
“The transaction is closer to a rental.”
“You know what I mean! I’m not comfortable with you doing that.”
They have no time to waste on Genesis prudery. “Are you more comfortable running out of funds? Running out of time? Failing to return home?”
Noemi looks up at him, as stricken as though he had offered to make money by murdering children instead. Sex is one of Abel’s programmed functions; he can therefore use this to benefit his commander. He’s on the verge of telling her so when the young woman steps toward them. “Listen—I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear—don’t get involved in that, okay? It’s work you should only take up if you’re sure you want it and can handle it. Not because you’re desperate.”
“We have few other options,” Abel says.
The woman sighs and tucks her datapad under one arm, then says, in a low voice, “Can you be discreet?”
“Absolutely,” Abel replies.
Noemi isn’t as quick to seize the chance. “About what?”
The young woman folds her arms. “About anything I ask you to be discreet about. I may have a job for you. But what you see in the warehouse area stays in the warehouse. And I mean, anything you see. Do that, and I think we can work well together.”
“We’ll report nothing,” Abel promises. Although Noemi looks warier, she finally nods.
“I must be going soft,” says the woman, shaking her head. “But I think I can fit in two more at the loading dock.”
Abel’s opening his mouth to accept her offer when Noemi says, “There are four of us. Is that okay?” She gestures toward Harriet and Zayan. “We all need the work pretty badly.”
“So I hear.” The woman gives Abel an up-and-down look, as though assessing how he would’ve fared as a sex worker. With a sigh, she adds, “Definitely going soft. Sure, we can take four, as long as all of you know to keep your mouths shut.”
“Thank you.” And there’s Noemi’s smile at last—radiant, only because she’s been able to help other people, who were strangers to her not ten minutes before.
Their new employer goes over to speak with Harriet and Zayan. As they laugh in astonished delight, Abel quietly says to Noemi, “You took a great risk to help strangers.”
“They’re my fellow human beings. That makes it my job to take care of them.” Her dark eyes narrow as she looks at him. “I wouldn’t expect a mech to understand.”
He had meant to express his approval of Noemi’s actions; his programming classifies selflessness as one of the highest virtues. It would have to. However, given the ways he’s insulted her throughout the day, she has concluded that anything he says is intended to be unkind.
It’s not an irrational conclusion, considering the evidence he’s given her.
Yet Abel finds himself troubled by the idea that Noemi dislikes him even more than he dislikes her. Why should it matter? He can think of no reason to care about his destroyer’s opinion… but he does.
Nor does he dislike her as much as he did an hour ago.
This problem with his emotions will have to be looked into.
Mechs are constructed, then grown. Factories produce the mechanical brain stem and skeletal framework; the brain stems are placed into cloning tanks where organic brains grow around them; the newly synthesized brain does the rest, pulling the necessary nutrients and minerals from the slippery pink goo that fills the tanks.
Abel remembers waking up in such a tank. Mansfield was waiting for him, hands outstretched, his smile the very first thing Abel ever saw.
However, most mech brains aren’t kindled into consciousness until they’ve been shipped and sold. They are sealed into translucent bags and transported like any other kind of cargo. Codes stamped onto the bags’ seals reveal model, manufacturer index number, destination, and owner. Abel has watched their distribution many times and has never understood why he finds the impersonal, efficient shipping process so… distasteful.
Now, on Kismet, he sees that humans can be treated this way, too.
“Okay, everybody, listen up!” shouts their new employer, the young woman with short black hair. The sarong she wears is patterned with lines that, close up, reveal the name of the resort they now work for—a detail Abel finds irrelevant, given that they are going no farther than this dank warehouse area of Wayland Station. “My name’s Riko Watanabe, and I’m going to guide you through the process here. What we do is coordinate shipments to the resort guests. Many of them traveled here in racers, which means their personal belongings have been shipped separately.” She gestures through the warehouse, which is filled with various trunks made of woven metals or even what looks like genuine leather. Abel wonders where anyone found a real cow. “We have to line up the shipments with the resort accommodations, making sure everyone’s got exactly what they want as soon as we can get it to them. Got it?”
Murmurs and nods of assent are her reply. Riko claps her hands and lets them get to work…
… which means hauling trunks, checking electronic tags, and steering forklifts to landing craft destined for the beautiful shores of Kismet, which Abel and Noemi will never see. Abel doesn’t mind, but he notices Noemi frowning every time she thinks no one is watching.
Still, she works hard. She doesn’t complain. She talks sometimes with Harriet and Zayan, when their duties allow. It’s as if she welcomes the distraction—from fear, he thinks. Though at this point, he doesn’t think she’s afraid of the mission, or the new world, both of which she’s adapting to swiftly.
What other thing is she afraid of? Is it the same thing driving her to go faster, to wait no longer than necessary?
The only time Noemi speaks to Abel, she says, “How many days of this do we need to make enough money for the part we need?”
“Five,” he says. Then he adds, “I would note that this warehouse seems to be located near one for spare parts, suggesting security protocols would be similar.”
Noemi tilts her head. “Are you going to break in?”
“Near the end of the festival’s first day,” he says. “Human psychology suggests that is when the greatest number of people will be distracted.”
He expects her to object due to her rigid Genesis morality, to refuse to steal when she could wait slightly longer to buy. Instead she takes a deep breath. “Tomorrow, then. One more day.”
Something is weighing on her. But what?
And whatever it is—is it something Abel should help Noemi with? Or is it something he should use against her, if he can?