She let a breath out. Okay, not that kind of desire, not in the human sense. Amygdalines had three forms of language— Pequod-phonemic, the spoken “common language” (and its written corollary); “network language,” a variant on common that was transmitted through internal networks; and “high language,” about which she knew little, only that it was a much deeper form of communication than the other two, and one that humans were completely incapable of. “You’ve never really explained it to me, what high language is.”

He tilted his head slightly to the side, running his fingers along her hairline until they stopped at the base of her skull. “High language isn’t truly a language at all. A language is a medium, and medium is the only way humans have to communicate ideas. Spoken language is a medium, written language is a medium, music is a medium. High language is the absence of medium.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“A medium is not an idea. A medium is a means to communicate an idea. It is an interpretation of ideas, of concepts, of your lived experience. But through high language, my consciousness experiences your consciousness as you experience it, and vice versa. There is no medium.”

She looked away from him, burying her face in her pillow to take this in. When she’d first known Ampersand, she had feared that he could actually read her mind, and it was only his perpetual cluelessness that eventually convinced her that he could not. But in this context, the idea that he’d actually thought about it, on some level wanted it, horrified her.

What could possibly disgust him more than truly knowing what it was like to be human? To exist inside her human body? To actually know her evil impulses, her sprawling self-loathing, her disdain for her coworkers, her embarrassing attempts at songwriting, the weird shit she (used to) masturbate to? Perhaps he had a desire to know her as a result of dynamic fusion bonding, but that didn’t mean he really wanted it.

Who would?

She shuddered, tense as a cord about to snap, and she could tell that something similar was going on on the other side of the wall. “Why is that a source of shame?”

“It is the product of a diseased mind.”

She relaxed her posture, confused, and looked up at him. “You mean me?”

“My mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“My brain is damaged, as is yours, but mine far worse, irreparable in many regards. Within the Superorganism, there are resources to repair some forms of trauma, but no resources to repair damage as extensive as mine. In our Superorganism, I would not be suffered to live. I did not believe the attempt to fusion bond with you would succeed, but it did. If Esperas knew . . .”

“I . . .” There was a part of her that was offended. He categorized his decision to bind himself to her as the product of a sick mind?