So he sits up on the bed to explain the further compelling reasons now coming to mind. “Humans need a certain amount of physical release and comfort in order to be psychologically healthy. You’ve been away from your family and friends for some time, and have endured considerable trauma, suggesting you are in even greater need than usual. I have all the information and technique necessary to be an excellent partner, my body is designed to be appealing, and of course I can neither carry disease nor impregnate you. We have total privacy and many hours of spare time. Conditions for intercourse would seem to be ideal.”
Noemi remains statue-still for another moment, then starts to laugh, but her laugh isn’t unkind. When she finally looks at him again, her cheeks are flushed. “Abel, I’m, uh—it’s nice of you to offer, I guess.” She tucks a lock of black hair behind her ear and bites her lower lip before adding, “But I couldn’t.”
No denying it: Abel feels disappointed. “Why not?”
“Among people of my faith on Genesis, sex is something you save for committed relationships. For people you care about very deeply.”
“You’d suggested your culture wasn’t as puritanical as Earth claimed.”
“It’s not. I mean, sex is a natural part of life. A wonderful part. We all understand that. And some of the faiths are a lot more permissive than the Second Catholic Church. But for me, at least, sex should be with someone I love.”
“I understand,” Abel says, hoping that he does.
She rolls onto her side, toward him, but doesn’t look him in the face as she adds, “You couldn’t have gotten me pregnant anyway. I mean, nobody could. The explosion that killed the rest of my family—it exposed me to some pretty terrible toxins.”
Although Noemi says it evenly, Abel can tell it hurts her deeply, or once did. How can he possibly console her for such a loss?
Finally he settles on, “I feel certain your genetic material would have been of the highest quality.”
She laughs again, more weakly this time. He must have said something wrong.
“If I offended you, I apologize. It was intended as a compliment—”
“No, Abel, it’s okay. I know what you meant.” Noemi glances over at him from where she lies on the bed, bashful and amused, and Abel feels an odd, disarming imbalance—as if merely looking at her throws his perceptions off-kilter. Within another instant, though, she sits up and stretches, breaking his reverie. “I’m still completely exhausted, and now I’m getting a headache. How long before the next diagnostic cycle ends?”
“Seven hours.” Since she seems to be indicating a less intimate mood would be preferred, he gets to his feet. “You can sleep through the night and rejoin me in the morning.”
“Shouldn’t you sleep, too? You’re still healing.”
He shakes his head. “I’m back to normal operations. You shouldn’t rejoin me until you are, too.”
“I thought I gave the orders around here.” But she’s only teasing him, her earlier embarrassment already fading. Noemi heads out the door toward her own cabin, her steps slow and weary. But she glances over her shoulder to say, “Good night.”
“Good night,” Abel repeats.
Her departure leaves him feeling restless. He knows she enjoyed Casablanca. Their efforts to interact as equals, even as friends, are proving successful. Repairs to the Daedelus are progressing smoothly, and they should be able to leave within another ten to twelve hours. So his mood should now be neutral to positive.
Instead he keeps replaying his memory of asking Noemi to have sex. Except in his memory, every time, he says it a little differently—a little better—and wonders if that would’ve convinced her to say yes.
Abel doesn’t experience desire in the same way humans do; Mansfield told him no man ought to be a slave to his own genitalia. But Abel can feel physical pleasure and would expect to during sex. In humans, desire comes before action; for Abel, it should be the other way around. But he’s been curious what desire would feel like.
His programming encourages him to seek out new experiences. He failed to have one tonight. That explains his disappointment, then.
No doubt.
The next morning, Abel remains hard at work in the engine room as he counts away the hours until Noemi is likely to appear. The earliest probable hour passes, as does the most probable—and then, finally, the latest Abel had calculated goes by without one word from her.
Only eight days remain before the Masada Run. Noemi remembers that. She wouldn’t let her exhaustion last night cost even one hour that might help her save the people of Genesis.
So Abel contacts her via intra-ship comms. “Noemi? It’s Abel.” An illogical thing to say, given that no one else could possibly be on board, but humans seem to find it comforting, this repetition of the obvious. “Are you awake?”
After a long pause, she replies, “Yeah. I just—I don’t feel good.”
“You’re ill?” He wonders if some of the emergency rations on board had in fact gone bad. The resulting food poisoning should not be fatal, but would cause severe nausea and fever. “Can I help you in any way? Would you like me to bring you water?”
“I think—I think maybe, yeah.”
Noemi’s voice is hoarse. Worse, she sounds unfocused, dazed. Human beings sometimes talk this way when intoxicated, though there are no inebriants on board and Noemi would be unlikely to overindulge.
Therefore, the only conclusion is that she is in fact very sick.
“I’ll be right there,” Abel promises. He hurries upward through the spiral corridor. Her room is on the second rotation, but she’s not inside. He sees her ahead of him in the corridor, just at the next visible bend—sitting on the floor in her pink T-shirt and leggings, leaning her head against the wall. He drops to his knees by her side. “Noemi, what’s happening?”
She looks at him with dull, reddened eyes. “I wanted to go to sick bay. To see if they have something for fever.”
Abel places his hand on her forehead. Her temperature is 100.7 Fahrenheit. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“So tired—Abel, I’m so tired—”
He scoops her into his arms to carry her to sick bay. As he does so, her oversize T-shirt slips sideways again, exposing her collarbone and part of her shoulder. Her deep tan skin is now marred by thin, crooked white lines. Although Abel has never seen this before, he knows instantly what this has to be:
Cobweb.
27
NOEMI DRIFTS IN AND OUT OF REALITY. SHE TRIES TO focus her thoughts on what’s most important, but it’s hard, so hard, to do anything but lie there and simmer in her own fever heat.
“You could have called me for assistance,” Abel says. He’s laid her someplace cool and bright—sick bay. This is sick bay. She’s lying on the same bed where Esther died.
“I didn’t think I needed to.” Her feet are cold. She hates it when her feet are cold. “Not at first. Then it felt like it was too late.”
“It wasn’t too late.” Abel’s hand circles her wrist, and his thumb presses down just where the thin latticework of her veins lies closest to the skin. His skin is cool against hers—not because he’s a mech, but because she’s burning up. “Your pulse is thready. Have you been able to eat or drink?”
Has she? Noemi shakes her head, then stops when it makes the floor seem to tilt and spin. “Haven’t tried in a while.”