Instantly Ephraim’s at Virginia’s side. “And you can get us through the grid in that time?”
“Or die trying,” Virginia replies. “Quick, laugh like that’s a joke and not our actual literal deaths on the line.”
Nobody laughs.
Fortunately, the human guards are cycling around the other side of the prison at the moment; Virginia claims to have already taken down the lower-level electronic sentries and cameras. Noemi goes as close to the laser grid as she dares and readies herself to run. Ephraim takes his place at her left, and Virginia comes up on her right, still clutching the dataread but apparently prepared to take part in every stage of this jailbreak. They make a better team than they have any right to… but she’d feel so much better about their chances if Abel were here. Abel would’ve broken through the laser security by now. He would be able to reach the cell faster than any of the rest of them. No system could ever have stopped him.
“Okay,” Virginia says. “Get ready. On my mark in three, two—”
A small window of the laser grid goes dark. Not much, maybe a gap the size of the average door. It’s enough. They all run for it at top speed. Ephraim, with his muscles toned by Stronghold’s powerful gravity, makes it through first, but Noemi’s only a few paces behind. From the sounds of the footsteps in the rear, it sounds like Virginia’s a distant third, but still with them as they dash across the long stretch of pavement between the laser grid and the ever-shifting cells of the Marshalsea.
The numerals seem to leap out from the cell itself as Noemi recognizes them and angles herself for Riko’s cell. Just as Virginia predicted, it’s just now made contact with the ground—contact that can’t last more than a few minutes. That will have to be enough.
“Unlock the door,” Noemi whispers as Virginia catches up, panting.
“I’ve got it,” Virginia says between gasps. “Really. This part isn’t—isn’t hard. Not like—running. Running is hard.” She fiddles with the dataread again, until finally a deep metallic click sounds from within the cell door.
Ephraim pulls the door open. “Riko Watanabe? Come with me.”
From inside, Noemi hears Riko’s sardonic voice. “To be sentenced to death, or executed? I need to know what to wear.”
Nervy. But they don’t have time for nerve. Noemi pokes her head around Ephraim’s broad shoulder to see Riko sitting on a small polymer bunk, short hair mussed, wearing a neon-yellow coverall. “Hey there,” Noemi says. “Talk later. Run now.”
“Wait. You’re—you can’t be.” Riko gets to her feet, her mouth agape.
“Now means now!” Noemi steps past Ephraim to grab Riko’s hand and physically drag her out if necessary. Virginia comes in behind them to avoid drawing attention, hardly even looking at the person they’ve come to rescue; she’s too busy staring down at her dataread. The four of them together in the cell are a tight fit.
“Uh, guys?” Virginia says. “It’s about to strike midnight.”
“Whatever.” Noemi finally tugs Riko, but Riko’s still overcome with confusion.
“What are you doing here?” Riko demands. “Is Genesis working with Remedy already?”
Noemi wants to scream with impatience. “No, and we never will if we don’t get out of here!”
That’s when Virginia swallows hard. “Uh-oh.”
The cells shift again, and they all pitch hard against one wall as Riko’s is pulled upward. Now they’re a couple of meters from the ground. Worse, the laser grid outside begins to flash in multiple different patterns, changing virtually every half second.
Ephraim’s eyes widen with dread. “What’s happening?”
“Turns out maximum security protocol activates at midnight,” Virginia said. “Which was… seven seconds ago.”
The cells move again, and they’re towed higher up still. Noemi looks out the open door to the distant ground, then wishes she hadn’t. “And that means—”
Virginia finishes for her. “That means we’re screwed.”
36
FOR NEARLY ALL OF THE PAST THIRTY YEARS, ABEL floated in complete isolation aboard the Daedalus. For his entire existence, he has known himself to be one of a kind—the only mech in the galaxy to possess true consciousness. Or, as Noemi called it, a soul.
But he has never felt as bitterly alone as he does tonight, wandering through the dark, damp streets of London.
A red double-decker monorail slides along overhead as Abel hunches against one of the metal struts, hiding in the shadows. Although he can and has borne the chill of outer space, he hugs himself as he stares into the distant street, almost unseeing.
There is nowhere for me to go. Nothing for me to do. My existence serves no purpose.
Except, that is, the purpose he was built for, which would require him to return and let Mansfield hollow him out as planned. Maybe he should. Abel’s programming still echoes within him, hauntingly strong.
Or maybe he should stand right here for hours. Or days, or months, or even years, if that’s what it takes, until Burton Mansfield is dead. Then Abel will be safe.
And even more alone than he was before.
No doubt this is self-pity, an emotion Abel has been programmed to consider unworthy in any but the shortest time frames. Yet he cannot look at his situation in any way that renders it any less troubling, or frightening, or even pathetic.
I believed he loved me like a father, Abel thinks. Did Mansfield deceive him, or did Abel deceive himself? Both, perhaps. Loving fathers do not destroy their children only to extend their own life-spans far beyond nature. Mansfield surely felt love when he looked at Abel, but that love had almost nothing to do with Abel himself. Instead Mansfield loved his own genius, his cleverness at outwitting death, and the proof that he might become the first human to achieve immortality.
Nor would Abel have been the only one. Should Mansfield ever take over Abel’s body, the first thing he will do is try to craft another version. Another mech with a soul, so that soul can be sacrificed in its turn, putting Mansfield’s death off another few centuries. As soon as he’d perfected the trick of duplicating Abel, Mansfield would then begin selling other versions to the wealthiest and most powerful humans in the galaxy. Maybe Abel is the first of hundreds or even thousands of—
—what can he call himself? Others like him? People? Surely not, and yet they couldn’t be called things, he is not a thing—
—the first of thousands of beings who will live and die only for the convenience of another.