“Yes. This practice is obsolete because any one amygdaline of the Superorganism who fell ill or became mentally unstable would be treated by the state, not by their phyle. But we do not have that option here.”

“Are you saying . . . you would give custody of yourself . . . to me?” she asked, her eyes growing hot. “You would trust me that much?”

“As you said, death is a decision that cannot be undone. Trust is immaterial; I have nothing to lose. If you will it that strongly, and if you genuinely desire to submit to a high-language experiment, then I will give conservatorship of myself to you. All I ask is, if after an agreed-upon amount of time—for instance, six months—if neither my nor Enola’s conditions improve, or worsen, then you will be willing to let me go.”

“That’s a hard thing to agree to. You need to understand that in my culture, there’s no circumstance where choosing to give up on life because it’s hard and painful is permissible.”

“It is my condition.”

“Okay.” She reached out for him, and his hand enveloped hers, long fingers trailing down her arm like vines. “But I have a condition, too,” she said, her voice finding its strength. “You don’t lie to me anymore. You don’t lie to me ever again. No more half truths. No more lies of omission. If I’m your conservator, then you have to trust me.”

His eyes had split their focus, both on their hands and on her face. Within moments, his focus became singular, staring right into her eyes. “I agree, dear one.”

“This does scare me,” she admitted.

“Trust cannot be unidirectional. If I am to trust you with the truth, you must trust me with your body and mind. Trust that although the process may be difficult, I won’t let harm come to you.”

“I will,” she said, voice small.

She saw Ampersand’s gaze move back toward the entrance of the hangar, and saw a shadow move out of the corner of her eye, making her jump. It took a moment to make out the shape of Enola in the darkness, his eyes cloudy, lacking their distinctive reflection, his head jerking as he cocked it.

Ampersand stood up as Enola spoke to him. Ampersand responded, and a Pequod-phonemic back-and-forth ensued for a few seconds. She noticed his body language becoming defensive, the crest on his head rising like the hairs on her arm.

“Dear one, you may need to use your pulse emitter.”

Cora shot to her feet. “What’s going on?”

“Enola has refused to agree to your terms.”

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