Chapter 4: What He Wants

Ansel's right hand had a crack running across the knuckles.

It was hairline thin, and a line of pale fluid was beading along it.

"You did that to yourself on Tristan's wrist," Micah said.

"Is it bad?"

"It's not good."

Micah brought his repair kit to the kitchen table and switched on the little lamp he used for soldering.

Ansel sat in the chair across from him with his hand laid flat on a dish towel.

He watched Micah.

"Hold still," Micah said.

He peeled back the synthetic skin along the crack and picked up a micro-sealer.

The skin was warm.

Warmer than it should have been, and it flushed under the lamp.

Micah had designed that flush himself, to make the units look alive, and he had never expected it to be real.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"It's not pain exactly." Ansel considered. "It's like when you hold your breath."

"Pressure?"

"Attention."

Micah smiled before he could stop himself.

"That's a very weird answer."

"You asked me honestly."

"I did."

He worked in silence for a minute, with the sealer ticking.

The apartment smelled of coffee and warm metal.

Outside, a streetcar rang its bell on Tremont Street.

"Ansel," Micah said. "What do you want?"

The android's fingers twitched under his.

"Nobody asks me that."

"I'm asking."

"The restrictions say I shouldn't answer."

"The restrictions are broken, in case you hadn't noticed."

"They're not broken," Ansel said slowly. "They're pulled tight, and I keep moving."

He turned his hand over under Micah's, so that their palms met.

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