Misery knows this to be a lie: thoughts brim over in their mind, loud as a stonecore’s melody. She sinks into the foam beside them. “I’ve been meaning to ask a question,” she says, which is true. She has always wondered this about Ghost, a background hum to their every interaction, and Jericho’s lies have only darkened her curiosity. “You said you weren’t a telepath.”

“I’m not.”

“Is that why you were taken out of the saints’ program?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

They seem genuinely perplexed. “I met a lot of your kind on the Capital. Clones, right? In service of the Emperor and the Throne. They’re telepaths, aren’t they?”

“No, they’re not. Why do you have the impression that they are?”

Good question; she admires that. “It’s a rumor. They don’t speak, they take orders and communicate through unseen methods. Is it not telepathy?”

“No.” Ghost lifts their heels onto the chair, boots and all, to tuck their knees under their chin. “They don’t speak because we were disciplined for speaking in the program. Their communication—I assume they have a system, the way we do here.”

Such things did not exist in the constellations of her understanding when she was first on the Capital. She presses on, moving smoothly over the hump of embarrassment in her way. “So you weren’t raised to be telepaths, then.”

“No. It’s as Dr. Sower said. We’ve tried, but it doesn’t work. The Heretics have managed to breed telepaths, but we don’t know how.”

She leans forward. “Because it’s not possible. Because it’s a cavity of the nullvoid.” Triumph blossoms in her chest. She’s right, again, about Jericho being full of shit. She’s getting confirmation everywhere she looks. “The pure reject the stings of nothingness. There’s no reason the Faithful have any need for telepaths.” But of course, the Throne would fund and encourage these sorts of research. She likes Dr. Sower well enough, but that will not be allowed to stand. She shall see to it.

Ghost rests their chin between the points of their knees. What’s troubling them is slowly bubbling to the surface. “Do you think I’m impure, Misery?”

“No. I didn’t say that. When did I say that?”

“You didn’t. But I’ve read a lot of holy writing lately.” They fold their arms around themself. “In Scripture it says creating in the image of humanity is a sin. Only that made by the Forge is pure. The Demiurge alone can cut from the cloth of the universe, beyond the taint of the void. Humanity must refrain from creating intelligent life by unnatural means.”

Misery issues a gentle correction. “That’s talking about artificial intelligence. Like ALISS, you know. It’s forbidden to make an AI. For good reason.”