The Clarified looked up at her, face red with acid burn, and began to cry. “Command me,” he begged. His face blinked from emotion to emotion in eerie flashes—childish grief, a lover’s joy, thoughtful concern, a string of perfect counterfeits, like the semaphore flags of a burning ship: help, help, help. Through it all he wept clear silent tears. “Make use of me, Your Excellence. Give me use.” She looked at him and saw wreckage. Not a person in distress, but a broken machine.
