Abel decides to run a ship-wide diagnostic, as long as he’s still working. The engine room feels too quiet, the silence almost overpowering.
His reaction is illogical. For three decades, Abel heard not a single sound he didn’t make himself. Is he so accustomed to human presence already that he can’t do without it for even a day?
But Noemi’s not simply out of the room. She’s shunning him. Rejecting him absolutely. He doesn’t understand why that should hurt so badly, especially given that she will soon be his destroyer.
Abel’s resentment about his impending destruction seems to have vanished. He still wants to live, wants it desperately, but he’s come to terms with Noemi’s plan. He’s learned to understand and respect the girl herself. In the beginning, he thought she was reckless and na?ve at best. Now Abel knows how courageous she is. How resourceful. Time and again, she’s made an intuitive leap that allowed them to escape, to survive.
He has to admire that, even if her world’s survival means his death.
That, however, is what most confuses him. He admires Noemi so much… but he shouldn’t be able to. His programming calls for him to prioritize Burton Mansfield’s health and happiness, to need Mansfield’s approval, and to value him over all others.
Instead Abel is now focusing on Noemi Vidal. Important circuits within him must have degenerated after so long without maintenance; he can’t think of any other explanation for why he’s becoming devoted to the wrong person.
Surely Noemi deserves admiration in a completely objective sense. Her determination to save Genesis, to keep going after her friend’s death, is constant. Her decision to throw herself into an unfamiliar, hostile cosmos on an unknown ship with only a mech at her side—that shows daring. And her willingness to die in the effort is selfless in the extreme.
Burton Mansfield also possesses many fine qualities, but Abel knows his creator would never make so selfless a choice.
When did he develop the capacity to criticize Mansfield?
A warning sensor comes on, blinking yellow—a proximity alert. Immediately it turns red, and Abel realizes something’s coming in fast. He turns the visual to the outside cameras in time to see a meteoroid falling toward them at an angle the outcropping won’t block. They’re going to take a direct hit.
He hits the control for the intra-ship comms. “Brace yourself!” he shouts, following his own advice. If the meteoroid is too large, however, nothing he’s done will make any difference; it will punch through the hull, depressurizing the ship so fast that, within seconds, Abel will go inactive and Noemi… Noemi will die.
The impact shakes the entire Daedalus so violently Abel can barely remain standing. His tools clatter from their places, rolling and bouncing on the floor. Red lights again shine from the control panels, but none are reporting depressurization—
—yet. But the topmost cone, the tip of the teardrop, has taken damage. If he can’t brace it through the integrity field within nine minutes, they’ll lose structural integrity. The air will escape, and the heat, and he and Noemi will freeze within minutes of each other.
Correct repair protocols call for Abel to put on an evac suit and scale the hull from the outside. Internal repairs would take more time than they have left. But an external fix will hold the ship for several days, during which a better, more permanent repair can be completed.
But when the crew of the Daedalus fled thirty years ago, they took most of the evac suits with them. The closest one that would fit Abel is near sick bay. Running up there, putting on the suit, exiting through one of the air locks, and reaching the repair site would take—approximately ten minutes at top speed.
Therefore, there is only one thing to do.
Abel scoops up the tools he needs and runs for the nearest air lock. As he belts his satchel around him, he swiftly does the math, calculating how long he can remain operational in the near-absolute zero of space if he doesn’t wear the evac suit. That temperature destroys anything organic exposed to it. Even things only partly organic, such as Abel himself.
But that destruction is not instant. The cold will not render him inoperable for …6.92 minutes.
For another two to three minutes after that, he will be alive, at least so far as Abel can be said to be alive. However, he will be unable to move or act in any way, including getting back inside the ship. After that period, his biological structures will be too damaged to regenerate, and his mechanical structures will soon follow. He will be as dead as any human, forever.
That means Noemi will not have her mech to save Genesis. For her sake, he’s sorry. But also for her sake, he must do this. Those 6.92 minutes will be sufficient for him to complete the repairs and save her. That has to be enough for them both.
He reaches the landing bay air lock and seals it behind him. Then he hits the panel that will begin cycling the air pressure to release him into the void of space. As the atmosphere hisses away, he reaches for magnetic vambraces that will keep him tethered to the Daedalus hull. This asteroid’s gravity is so slight that, without the vambraces around his forearms, Abel might simply float away into outer space, lost in infinity. Then he grabs a portable force field generator—not nearly strong enough to protect him from the cold for long, but it will keep his organic tissues from boiling upon exposure to space. It clips easily to his belt.
Over the speakers comes Noemi’s voice. “Abel! What are you doing?”
“The necessary repairs.” He pulls on padded work gloves. They might buy his hands another five to ten seconds of maneuverability.
“You’re going out there?” Her words become fainter as the atmosphere continues to cycle out of the room. There’s not much air left for sound to travel through. The last thing Abel hears from her is, “Don’t! You can’t! You’ll be killed!”
She does not hate him enough to want him dead. Abel takes comfort from that.
He is of course programmed to defend a human’s life at any costs, including his own existence. But he knows he’s not doing this only because of his programming. It seems only fitting that his last act should be his most human.
The air lock spirals open. The cold surrounds Abel, and he pushes himself into the void.
25
NO, NO, NO, PLEASE NO—