The tentacles, Aklu’s magic legs, twined and their tips screeched against the drone bay walls like fingernails. Her breathing abruptly became too hard, too fast, and the medical telltales in the Scorpion pod started to shout at her, trying to give her a calming shot, except she hadn’t kept the drug reservoirs filled since forever. “Oh,” she said. The Architect tearing into the real right on top of them, the ship coming apart—nobody should have to witness something like that. But she was Olian Timo. She wasn’t Idris, flying into pieces so fast he should have some sort of warning sticker slapped
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