But then again, maybe there was a way.

She sat up straight, now aware of a string of hope to cling to, and she grabbed it. “Could . . . could you make me capable of high language?”

At this, his eyes opened further, a subtle fluid movement. The focus of his eyes eventually found her, but he didn’t move.

She crawled around his body to face him. “You said you can’t prove a negative unless you try. If you die now, you’ll never find out. It might be possible. And if that’s possible, who knows what else is possible?”

“It would be extremely invasive. It will take months if not years for me to build an artificial neural network that might interface between our respective nervous systems, which would be incredibly taxing on you. And even then, there is still a good chance it might fail.”

She wiped her face. “I can take that risk.”

By now, his eyes were clear, his focus strengthening. “And if it succeeds, your mind may handle it poorly. My consciousness would be inside yours. That’s a type of intimacy I do not think you are even capable of imagining.”

“I think you’d be surprised how vivid human imaginations can be,” she said, hoping he wasn’t picking up on the fear in her voice.

Ampersand’s focus dissipated as if he were retreating inward. Considering what she was offering, she hoped.

“I don’t know if it would end up meaning anything to either of our civilizations. Probably it won’t, but maybe that doesn’t matter. Wouldn’t it be an incredible discovery in itself, if you found that it was possible? That I could communicate with you, or any of you, on your level?”

She closed her eyes and allowed herself to grip that little string of hope more tightly. “Do you still desire me like that?”

She opened her eyes to look at him, but he hadn’t moved, his focus still hazy. He stayed that way for almost a minute, and then his focus sharpened on her, the crest on his head perked up, spread into his neutral stance. He pulled himself up into a roost, tucking his hands under himself and pulling his legs up and to his side.

“There is an ancient practice of our ancestors, obsolete within the Superorganism, but it may be relevant here. You might term it conservatorship.”

“Conservatorship?”

“When one of a phyle is ill, or unwell, they give themselves over to the rest of their phyle, relinquishing their autonomy until both they and the rest of the phyle agree that their malady is sufficiently improved that the individual may live their lives with autonomy again.”

“So basically, it’s a form of guardianship. If you’re unwell, you give up your autonomy and give custody of yourself to the rest of your phyle.”