It was a relief in a lot of ways. Whenever Tennal thought about something like the look on his aunt’s face as she fell to her knees or the incredible stupidity of his past few weeks, and in fact his whole life, he could pack it away. He could neatly slip sideways into their shared thoughts instead—the ship, the unit, Tennal himself, all set out cleanly—and feel his previous mental tangles, his previous way of being Tennal, start to wither away. Surit’s mind was neat and shining and dependable. It was as far as you could get from the disaster zone that was Tennal’s head. It was an upgrade in every way.

Tennal had the lurching sensation that they were both losing their grip on something.

A couple of times, Tennal opened his eyes at his own seat and blinked away tears. Inexplicable. He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t anything.

He was covering the pilot console alone, late at night, when Surit burst in the door.

“You have to stop this,” Surit said, wild-eyed. “We’re losing parts of you.”

Tennal stared at him. “What?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Surit said. “But you’re letting yourself disappear.”

This was ridiculous. Surit didn’t know anything more about syncs than Tennal. And Tennal felt fine. “You’re imagining things. What do you want me to do, call up the regulators and ask for a consultation? We’re fine.”

“Look.” Surit’s hand closed around Tennal’s wrist, and Tennal felt a jolt, like an electric current, then—

—he saw what Surit saw.

In Surit’s head was the same storm as in Tennal’s, but the way Surit parsed it was different. Tennal had a sudden, lurching glimpse of an endless, ceaseless ocean and a rocky coast and knew this was how Surit experienced their joined minds. The ocean in Surit’s head was unnaturally quiet. It drained itself away onto the land, lay stagnant in pools, sank into the sand. It was drying up.

“I don’t think we can last like this much longer,” Surit said. And now that Tennal was deep in Surit’s head, he recognized the strand of fear. He understood, now, how good Surit had always been at hiding fear.

Tennal breathed out and said, like prying his own bones from his chest, “All right. Let’s find a way to stop it.”

The medic wasn’t asleep, but Tennal summoned him from his shower, ruffled and grumpy.

“You said you knew something about neuromodification,” Tennal said. Medical was quiet: the bay was meant for a team of four, but now it was only this lieutenant part-time.

“Is this an emergency?” the medic asked. “I have very basic training in neurology. We spent more time on burn wounds and transmissible diseases. I don’t know what you expect of me.”