Defy the Worlds (Defy the Stars #2)(54)

“He does not,” Abel says. This point is one he must make himself. “Mansfield has tried very hard to recapture me, and has failed. I came here to investigate him, and to search for my friend Noemi Vidal, who may have been brought here as his prisoner.”

Riko interjects, “Noemi’s the Genesis fighter I told you all about! We can’t pass up the chance to have an ally from Genesis.”

Would Noemi be so quick to join up with Remedy, especially after this? Fortunately this is not a question Abel has to answer. To Fouda he says, “All I ask is a chance to look for her, perhaps also to search for whatever data Burton Mansfield may have cached on board.” And to check on Mansfield—though that’s something he prefers not to admit even to himself.

Fouda huffs. “You came here with demands, then! Well, we have demands of our own first.”

“That’s reasonable.” Abel stands in military at-ease position, calculating that this will influence Fouda to believe him obedient. He will obey if it doesn’t conflict with his core programming; he can readily assist in restoring power, for instance. Getting the information he needs—finding Noemi—is worth some labor. However, it is not worth slaughtering innocents.

But Fouda says, “We’ll start small. See if we can trust you.” When Abel inclines his head—again, like a subordinate—Fouda calms even more. “The passengers are pretending to be soldiers. They’ve set up force fields, blocking us from some areas of the ship. That’s how they hide from us. We don’t intend to let them hide any longer. A mech like you—you’d be effective against them, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.” Given sufficient firepower, Abel could outfight large numbers of humans, but elects not to mention this. Fouda should not have that information before he decides whether to give Abel a weapon.

“Fine.” Fouda nods at him. “Let me show you what we’re up against.”

He leads Abel down a side corridor, toward what must have been a separate operations room. Their entire path is lined with mech bodies.

Dozens of them. Possibly hundreds. Some have literally been smashed to pieces—an arm here, a torso there—making an exact count difficult. Abel prefers not to try. Mechs bleed as humans do, and the scent of the air has that metallic tang to it. Some blood spatters the walls and has puddled on the concave ceilings-turned-floors. Internal coolant fluid pools there, too, milky-white streaks amid the red; it doesn’t mix with blood.

“We couldn’t leave them for Mansfield to turn against us,” Fouda says. He’s not apologizing for this; he’s proud of it. “The Charlies and Queens went down hard. The rest? Easy.”

“I should imagine so. They weren’t combat models.” A Nan lies at Abel’s feet, her scorched face staring up blankly at him. Nans nurse children and the elderly.

“What, do you feel bad for your fellow machines?” Fouda mocks him.

“No.” He doesn’t. Abel knows better than any human the vast gap between regular mech minds and his own capacity. They don’t have selves; the bodies on the floor weren’t alive in the way he is. “But I find it interesting to evaluate how humans treat those who present no threat to them.”

Fouda isn’t pleased enough with this answer to continue the conversation.

Only one display in the ops room still functions, but it reveals the layout of the Osiris in thin green glowing lines. Abel realizes they haven’t inverted the layout to reflect the ship’s upside-down state and quickly punches in the commands to do so.

Fouda seems irritated he didn’t think to handle that himself. But he only points to a few areas glowing orange. “Here, near their mech chambers and the baggage hold—that’s where they’re holed up. Closed-off areas with force fields.”

“Standard force fields?” Every ship has them amply distributed throughout, in case of hull breaches. When Fouda nods, Abel says, “Those are easy to activate, but just as easy to deactivate. It can’t be accomplished remotely, but a small, targeted strike team would be able to handle it—provided you have someone with sufficient knowledge of field mechanics.”

“We do now,” Fouda says. “We have you.”

Abel’s in no position to argue.

One of the consoles overhead blinks, and the Remedy fighter monitoring it (from a repair ladder) says, “We’ve got another mech patrol incoming.”

Fouda scowls. “More? How many of them can there be?”

“Quite possibly thousands, extrapolating from the size of the vessel,” Abel says. Nobody thanks him for this information.

The Remedy crew member continues, “I can’t tell for sure, but it looks like—like the mech patrol is working to clear a major corridor that would connect the passenger territory to the bridge—Corridor Theta Seven. That would give them a clear path to attack us.”

“Except that it goes straight through the theater,” Riko says, and a few people laugh. Abel’s unsure why, but at this point asking seems more risky than useful.

Fouda’s begun to grin. “Then let’s put on a show, shall we? We’ll take out their mechs, and any passengers foolish enough to be with them. And this time, we’re going to fight fire with fire.” He turns to Abel and says, “To kill a mech, we send a mech.”

Again Abel considers protesting and decides against it. He doesn’t want to protest.