Noemi studied ReGen in history class. On Earth, they spent their lives fearing death, denying its inevitability. They even found a way to expand their life-spans. And yet they were so shortsighted that they used up the plant that provided the necessary drug. Once it had gone extinct, their chance for relative immortality went with it.
What kind of world could be brilliant enough to invent the Gates, the mag engines, even a mech as advanced as Abel, and still be dumb enough to do that?
Noemi sighs. She’s beginning to understand the colony worlds a little—the Vagabonds—the kinds of choices off-worlders have now. But she doesn’t think she’ll ever make sense of Earth.
“Listen, guys, let’s wrap up,” Fon says via her connection. “I’ve got Hernandez first thing tomorrow, and you know how he gets if you drag ass in his lectures.”
Both Kalonzo and Ludwig groan. Virginia says, “Don’t remind me. Okay, I’ll be hanging out here in cybernetics central until the rest of you show up tomorrow. Got it?”
“I’ll do some midnight riding if I get the chance,” Ludwig says—whatever that means. Noemi’s still piecing together their slang. “If so, I’ll let you guys know.”
“If you pull this off, you’re forever captain!” Kalonzo says, which makes them all laugh. More slang? As they sign off, Noemi steals another glance at Abel.
He lies in the hammock, his hands folded atop his chest. Humans rarely look that tidy while they doze; he’s even more stiff now than he was back in the pod on Wayland Station. But he’s not so stiff that he’d tip off anyone who didn’t know what he really is. Mansfield must have included programs to protect Abel while he sleeps.
But he’s not sleeping, Noemi reminds herself. Even if he calls it that. He’s just in regenerative mode. Even if his energy stores ran low, he couldn’t actually feel tired.
Could he?
Virginia slaps off her link to the others, licks the last of the sticky-sweet from her thumb, then kicks back in her chair. In her loose, casual pants and her cheerful yellow tee, she looks like an overgrown kid. Or maybe an artist. Not one of the supposed icy geniuses of Cray.
When Virginia sees Noemi watching her, she brightens. “What, you can’t sleep? I would’ve thought you’d collapse, after that dunking you took in the river.”
“Me too,” Noemi admits. “But I guess I need more time to—wind down, or something.”
“Well, come on. We’ll find something fun to listen to, or watch. Too bad you’re wanted, or we could do some orbital flips in my flash new ride.” Virginia waves her over. “We won’t wake up Abel, will we?”
“I think he can choose how long to be asleep.” That’s Noemi’s theory, anyway. When Abel’s next awake, or at least admitting he’s awake, she’ll ask to make sure.
For now, she wants to talk with Virginia, to get to know her. The conversations she had with Harriet and Zayan hadn’t lasted nearly long enough for Noemi to satisfy even a fraction of her curiosity about people on other worlds.
They go to the computer terminal on the far side of the room from Abel, just in case. As Virginia activates the screen, Noemi catches a glimpse of the wallpaper image and recognizes the man’s face. “Wait. That’s—”
“Han Zhi. The smokiest guy in the galaxy.” Virginia gives her a conspiratorial smile. “Gotta admit, usually girls are more my type, but some guys do it for me. And Han Zhi? He can do anything for me he feels like doing.”
“He’s pretty amazing,” Noemi admits. On Genesis they try not to judge others by appearances, but nobody’s immune to a face like that. Of course not everyone in the galaxy can find him the hottest guy alive—but Virginia, at least, agrees. “Is he okay after the Orchid Festival?”
“Did you not hear? He’s totally fine. His next holo won’t even be delayed.”
Noemi didn’t care that much about this one particular celebrity. “But, the bombing—weren’t people killed?”
“A dozen or so. Mostly workers.” Virginia says this so… flippantly. As if workers weren’t even people.
Is that what happens when you have mechs to do all the work for you? Noemi wonders. Do you begin to believe that work makes you less than human?
She must have had a strange expression on her face, because Virginia sits up straight then, taken aback. “Wait,” she says, and there’s an unfamiliar note in her voice—more serious than before. Harder. “You guys didn’t have anything to do with the bombing, did you? Is that what you’re on the run from?”
“No! We would never, ever do something like that. Ever.”
Virginia holds up her hands, as if in surrender. “Okay, okay. Might’ve jumped to some conclusions there. Like, Galactolympic-long-jump jumped. You were just ‘persons of interest,’ and if you’d been mixed up in that—yeah, we’re talking red alert, every security mech on the planet swarming in this direction. Besides, Abel’s a mech, so I don’t think he even could plant a bomb—”
That must be true. It’s odd to think that Abel literally cannot be as cruel as some humans.
“And you’re, what, sixteen? Seventeen? Hardly enough time to get mixed up with Remedy.”
“Remedy. I heard about them on Kismet’s moon.” Noemi draws closer, thinking of Riko Watanabe and the shadowy figures she encountered in their last minutes on Wayland Station. “Who are they?”
“Anti-Earth lunatics,” Virginia scoffs. “They’re not all terrorists, which is part of the problem. Remedy doesn’t have any one leader, so some cells are pretty low-key protest groups. Illegal, but no big deal if you ask me. That’s where a lot of the doctors come in—”
“Doctors?” Noemi thinks of the medical personnel who performed the Cobweb screenings. She’d thought they might be pretending to be doctors to get access to Wayland Station. Apparently not.
Virginia shrugs. “I don’t know why, exactly, but it was groups of doctors who formed Remedy in the first place. The first few messages from the group were almost reasonable. I mean, conspiracy theorist voodoo, all ‘the truth must come out,’ blah blah blah—but they weren’t violent. But once Remedy spread beyond that first group, to other kinds of people, the violence began.” She looks at Noemi again and laughs. “And if you don’t even know where the evil terrorists came from, you’re obviously not one.”
“Obviously,” she repeats.
Evil terrorists. Those words hang heavy in her mind, clouds that won’t disperse. The bombing horrified Noemi, and yet she hasn’t forgotten the unwilling thrill that shivered through her when she saw those words of defiance shining above Kismet: OUR WORLDS BELONG TO US. She can’t understand the action, but the emotion behind the bombing is one she’d give her own life for.
And what about Riko Watanabe? Noemi keeps remembering the last moment they spoke—with soot from the bomb still smeared on Riko’s face, a blaster in her hand. She saw both a homicidal zealot and a potential ally. Can those things be separated? Should they be?