Main docking bay: Level One. Two levels below my equipment pod bay. After three decades, Abel thinks of the room as his. When the Genesis fighters enter the main docking bay, the unharmed pilot will no doubt attempt to reach sick bay in order to assist the injured comrade, he calculates. If the pilot’s main goal were safety, rather than rescue, then that fighter would be speeding back toward the distant Genesis fleet. Although a first-aid kit had been stored in the main docking bay, Abel doesn’t know whether it’s still there; even if it is, its contents would be unlikely to help anyone gravely hurt.
In order to leave the docking bay, the Genesis pilot will have to restore backup power. Assuming any damage to the Daedalus is not too severe, it is possible to do this from that location. Any trained pilot should be able to do so within minutes if not seconds.
Abel’s mind clicks through the possibilities, faster and faster. This is the first new situation he’s faced in thirty years. His mental capabilities have not been blunted by this long time in storage. If anything, he feels sharper than before.
But there’s an emotional component now. Hope has kindled into something far more exhilarating: excitement. Merely seeing anything outside this pod bay will be a thrill…
… but nothing can possibly match the knowledge that he will finally be able to search for Burton Mansfield. To find him. Maybe even to save him.
“Excellent,” Mansfield said as he examined the puzzles Abel had just solved. “Your pattern-recognition ability is top-notch. You finished that in very nearly record time, Abel.”
Although Abel was programmed to enjoy praise, particularly from Mansfield, he could still experience doubt. “Was my performance adequate, sir?”
Mansfield settled into his high-backed leather chair, a slight frown on his face. “You do understand that excellence would, by definition, include adequacy?”
“Yes, sir! Of course, sir.” Abel didn’t want Mansfield to think his language databases hadn’t loaded properly. “I only meant—many of my test performances have beaten all existing records. These results did not.”
After a moment, Mansfield chuckled. “Would you look at that? It looks like your personality has already developed enough to make you a perfectionist.”
“… Is that good, sir?”
“Better than you realize.” Mansfield rose from his chair. “Walk with me, Abel.”
Burton Mansfield’s office was located in his house in London. Although the home had been recently constructed and on the outside looked like any other mirrored polygon in this gated, privileged community on the hill—on the inside, it might have been 1895 instead of 2295. Handwoven silk rugs covered the wooden floors. A grandfather clock ticked loudly in the corner, its brass pendulum swinging back and forth despite countless atomic clocks nested in the higher-tech machines concealed all around it. Paintings by various Old Masters hung on the wall: a saint by Raphael, a soup can by Warhol. And even though the fire and fireplace were holographic, the house’s internal climate controls made it feel as though the flames glowed with heat.
Mansfield was a human male of average height, with dark-gold hair and blue eyes. His features were regular, even handsome, if Abel understood the aesthetic principles involved. (He hoped that he did, because Mansfield’s younger face had been the model for Abel’s own.) Even the eccentricities of Mansfield’s appearance were striking and aristocratic—the widow’s peak at his forehead, a slightly hawkish nose, and unusually full lips. He dressed in the simple, Japanese-inspired style of the day, in a flowing open jacket and wide-legged trousers.
Abel, meanwhile, wore the same boxy gray coverall common to most mechs. The garment fit and was practical for all purposes. Why then did it sometimes feel… not right?
Before he could consider this question in depth, Abel was brought back to the moment by Mansfield, who was pointing at the window—actually at the courtyard outside. “What do you see out there, Abel? No. Who do you see?”
Mansfield usually used who, not what, to refer to mechs. Abel appreciated the courtesy. “I see two Dog models and one Yoke model, all of which are engaged in garden work. One of the Dogs is tending your hydroponic vegetable plot, while the other Dog and Yoke are trimming the topiary hedges.”
“We need to work on your overenthusiasm for detail.” Mansfield sighed. “That’s my fault, of course. Never mind. My point is—if I sent you into that garden, you could take care of the hydroponics, couldn’t you? And trim the hedge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just as well as any Dog or Yoke?”
“Of course, sir.”
“What if I fell and broke my arm? Could you set it as well as a Tare model?”
The medical mechs were among the smartest and swiftest, but Abel could still answer, “Yes, sir.”
Mansfield’s blue eyes twinkled. “What if a Queen model broke in with orders to kill me? A Queen or a Charlie? What then?”
“Sir, you’re Earth’s most respected roboticist—no one would—”
“The question is theoretical,” Mansfield said gently.
“Oh. In theory, were a fighter-model mech to attempt to kill you, I believe I could defeat it in combat. At the very least, I’d be able to distract or damage it enough for you to escape or summon help.”
“Exactly. All the programming for the other twenty-five models—all their talents—every bit of that is inside you. You may only equal your simpler counterparts in certain talents, but you’ll excel in most of them. And not one mech ever built has the breadth of skills and intelligence that you have.” The ghost of a smile played upon Mansfield’s face as he studied Abel. “You, my son, are one of a kind.”
Son. Abel knew this was not true in any literal sense; although he contained organic DNA patterned on Mansfield’s own, he was primarily a mechanical construct, not a biological organism. Burton Mansfield had a true child of his own, a daughter who obviously took precedence in every way. And yet—
“You liked that, didn’t you?” Mansfield asked. “When I called you ‘son.’”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you’re gaining some emotional capacity. Good.” His hand patted Abel once on the back. “Let’s hurry that along, shall we? From now on, call me ‘Father.’” With a sigh, Mansfield looked out at the hoverships darting through the London sky. “Getting late. Tell the Dogs and Yoke to finish up, would you?”
Abel nodded.
“And when you’re done, join me in the library. I want to get you started on some books and movies and holovids. We’ll see whether fictional narratives can affect you.”
“I’ll be there soon,” Abel said, before daring to add, “Father.”
He was rewarded with Mansfield’s smile.
A distant clang sounds through the ship. The framework shudders slightly—stubborn metal resisting motion after so long at rest. The main docking bay door is opening at last.
Abel realizes he’s smiling.
I’ll be there soon, Father.
Once again he reviews the ship’s schematics, imagining a three-dimensional model of the Daedalus floating in front of him. Abel mentally enlarges the area around the pod bay and searches for “defensive resources.” Various possibilities come up, most of them emergency storage lockers, some nearer and more practical than others—