A Closed and Common Orbit (Wayfarers, #2)

by Becky Chambers

She could access no knowledge except that which was stored inside a housing that held nothing but herself. She felt blind, stunted. She was trapped in this thing.

There was organisation at work, but clutter, too. The mark of a logical mind that sometimes strayed.

There was an Aandrisk gesture that captured this feeling perfectly: tresha. Someone seeing a truth in you without being told.

It was a good thing, Sidra thought, to know your craft so well that an extra pair of eyes made little difference.

‘I can stay in bed?’ ‘Of course you can.’ ‘. . . all day?’

But her body knew it was time to wake up, and the feeling of being in trouble grew louder and sharper, sitting thick in her chest. Girls who stayed in bed got punished. Girls who were late got punished. I won’t get punished.

Yeah, this food was good. Her stomach growled loud. She wanted that food real real bad. She was hungrier than any girl had ever been, probably.

Any time I learn someone’s name, any time I’m taught a new skill, I’m going to have to pick and choose which of my memories to keep. I’m going to have to tear pieces of myself out. You say you understand, but you don’t. You have no idea what this is like. You have no idea how this feels.’

This conversation was making her feel guilty, too. Why was she acting this way? Why couldn’t she just get used to the way things were? What was wrong with her?

The law forgot to make space for people like me.

She knew that face. She’d known that face when it was small and sunburned. She’d known that face when it responded to a different name, a number. To see it now, with full cheeks and healthy colour and clean skin that had smiled often enough to gain a few lines – that was worth everything.

Yes, they were someone else’s words, but she had no desire to change them. She liked those words. They suited her just fine.