Defy the Worlds (Defy the Stars #2)(22)
More subdued, Harriet says, “Noemi’s a survivor. If anyone can make it through, she can. And you’d better come back to us safe and sound, too. Got it?”
“Got it.” Abel finds her words illogical. No one can know the future. But he is unexpectedly pleased to realize how concerned Harriet and Zayan are about his welfare. These people he met only months ago care for him more truly than his “father” ever did.
They depart on a noontime shuttle to Rangpur to visit Zayan’s family. For no reason he can name, Abel watches their shuttle take off and fly away until the distant dot in the sky disappears from even the farthest range of his vision.
Twenty-two hours, thirty-six seconds.
One hour provides sufficient time between Harriet and Zayan’s departure and his own that no random security check should find any link between the two. The instant he can, Abel slides the corsair’s cockpit closed and prepares to fly.
Virginia’s corsair is a top-of-the-line personal cruiser. It can seat three at most, and sleeps perhaps two, assuming those individuals are sexually involved or extremely good friends. The lone mag engine may not compare to the massive ones on the Persephone, but it’s powerful enough to take this ship from one side of a system to another in good time. While the interior is luxurious, the exterior is even more flamboyant to Abel’s eyes. Shiny red paint, exaggerated curves, chrome trim and fins that serve no aerodynamic purpose: The aesthetic reminds him of ancient automobiles of the mid-twentieth century.
It’s also a ship that tends to attract attention, but Abel isn’t worried about that. Mansfield believes he has the situation under control. He’ll expect nothing from Abel but compliance.
The vision clarifies in Abel’s mind so swiftly, so vividly, that it feels almost real: Walking into Burton Mansfield’s home again, hearing the soft chimes of the grandfather clock, seeing Mansfield sitting in an easy chair with his hands outstretched. Mansfield saying, “You came back. You came to save me after all.”
“Yes, Father. I could never abandon you.”
If this were actually to happen, Abel would swiftly be shown into the basement laboratory, invited to lie down on a metal table, and, he suspects, be strapped down. Mansfield wouldn’t trust him not to change his mind.
But when Abel imagines the scene, he envisions a different ending:
Mansfield saying, “I could never hurt you, my boy.” Holding out his arms. “Your girl is safe. I’m so sorry. Everything’s all right again.”
Abel being folded in his creator’s embrace. “I love you, Father.”
“I love you, too.”
Directive One should be such a simple piece of programming to obey, but it turns against him sometimes, providing dreams like that one. Delusions. Falsehoods. Directive One lies. He must remember that.
The ready lights glow green on the corsair’s console. Abel hits ignition, and the corsair streaks upward, aiming beyond the sky.
Twenty-one hours, twenty-six minutes, two seconds.
London looks even more worn-down to Abel than it did when he was last here not quite six months prior. Upon reviewing his memory files, he cannot justify this impression; the state of disrepair is actually very similar. But apparently something deep within him insists upon comparing this to the London he remembers from thirty years ago, the one that still possessed more of its vitality and hope. For him, that past vision is more real than reality.
A curious paradox. He’ll have to discuss that with—someone, someday.
After stowing Virginia’s corsair in a public dock, using a false name, he hurries to a public-access info station. This takes him through Trafalgar Square, past the remnant of Nelson’s Column that still stands after a lightning strike a century before. The bustle of a large Earth city is like nothing anywhere else in the galaxy: the crush of humans, the numerous mechs of every model hurrying about their labors, storefront lights, banners in front of museums advertising the few great works of art not yet in private hands. Abel has read that most people support the sale of classic paintings and statues because only individual collectors will take them offworld. Humanity wants these works to survive Earth. It’s a beautiful impulse in its way—though Abel would admire it more if humankind could’ve spared some of that concern for Earth itself.
The info station provides private booths for an extra fee. Abel settles himself into one—a tall, narrow room with walls, ceiling, and floor as black as obsidian. Its metallic darkness is broken only by the slender control bar, a single line of silver.
His first action is to input codes that should make it difficult to trace his location. Mansfield will know he’s being contacted from someplace on planet Earth, but no more than that. Only then does he send a signal to Mansfield’s home. (The contact information for his creator’s domicile was programmed into him before his awakening as a conscious being. Burton Mansfield never wanted Abel to stray far.)
A hologram shimmers into existence, revealing a standard Charlie model. It speaks first. “Model One A. You will be linked momentarily.” Then it shimmers out.
There’s a seat in the booth, as black as its surroundings, but Abel remains standing. He will not bow before Mansfield. Reminding himself of the minutiae of human body language and arranging himself to project confidence, he braces himself for the sight of his creator.
The hologram shimmers back into brightness, taking on human form. But it’s not Mansfield before him.