“Shit,” Park said. She closed her eyes again, hearing the whir of the androids communicating nonverbally with each other; another cool hand was placed on her forehead, and then a liquidly pleasant female voice said, “Her vitals are distressed, but she is uninjured. Whole.”

Park’s eyes snapped open again. “Ellenex?”

The medical android was bending over her, and although she’d recognized the voice, the sight of Ellenex’s face gave Park a bad scare. The nurse had a dent in the side of her head, like a depression in a hardboiled egg—and her blond hair was askew, as if she was wearing a wig. One of her blue eyes looked off to the left as she peered in at Park.

“My God,” Park breathed, sitting up without realizing it. “What did Chanur do to you?” She glanced at Jimex. “Jimex said she’d damaged you, punished you, but I hadn’t realized—”

“Now I must examine Officer Hanover,” Ellenex said, as if she hadn’t spoken. She cast a look at Jimex that would have been austere, if not for the skewed eye. “You are not experienced enough to be using your defense protocols.”

Jimex only smiled slightly at her, which puzzled Park. She’d never seen him with that expression before. She looked from android to android and repeated groggily, feeling foolish: “Defense protocols?”

Jimex looked at her. “I prefer to call it knowledge of human biology,” he said. “The same as Ellenex’s.”

“They are not comparable,” Ellenex insisted, severe and disapproving now. Park blinked. Her voice was usually so pleasant and tinny, her vocal system modeled after Mama Duck’s—a popular storyteller who’d appeared on children’s media streams for a brief time in Park’s youth. It was the kind of voice that sang lullabies, and told you stories about three little pigs getting evicted from their living modules. Not the kind of voice she’d ever heard scold someone. “The knowledge is used for different purposes. Please do not compare them.”

Jimex turned to Park. “I did not harm Officer Hanover permanently,” he said, unsure now, like a child pleading his case to a critical parent. “Proper pressure applied to the glenoid fossa, or the greater auricular nerve, or the dokko pressure point—”

“Stop.” Park stared at him; she realized suddenly that her mouth was as dry as bone. “What are you talking about? How do you know any of that?”

Jimex stared back at her, as if surprised she would ask. “I learned it.” His tone added an invisible and patronizing “Of course.”

“From where?” Park demanded.