“No.”
“There it is again.”
“Sera.”
“You just decided yours is acceptable.”
“Yes.”
She stares at me. I cannot lie. Not to her. Not now.
The eye beneath the pool pulses. Blue-white light pushes through the water, painting the underside of her jaw, her throat, the stubborn line of her mouth.
Beautiful. Alive. Angry with me. Good. Anger means she is still here.
“I am larger,” I say.
“And apparently dense enough to have your own gravity.”
“I heal faster.”
“That does not make you disposable.”
“No.”
“Say it like you believe it.”
The cavern hums around us.
I look at the old machine heart, the reservoir, the glow that recognized us too soon. I think of the caverns. Of males teaching one another to endure because no other future remained. Of sacrifice wearing honor until no one could tell the difference between courage and surrender.
Sera sees the thought move through me. She always sees too much.
“I am not disposable,” I say.
The words feel strange. Stone does not often speak of its own value.
Sera’s expression flickers. “Good.”
“But I am still taking the blackened sample.”
“Kavor.”
“Not because I am disposable. Because my skin is less wounded. Because I can seal it. Because if it reacts, you can pull me back.”
She glares, but the glare weakens at the edges. She dislikes reason when it does not belong to her.
“I pull you back?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“With one good arm?”
“And a bad temper.”
“That might work.”
“Yes.”
