The Stone Sky (The Broken Earth, #3) - N. K. Jemisin Page 0,36

more of the fragments than just our local amethyst. She has even been to Zero Site, where the moonstone rests. We are in awe of this.

“I have context,” she says to us—to me, rather. She’s sitting on my couch. I am sprawled facedown on the window seat, face turned away from her. “When you do, too, you’ll be just as sharp.”

(It is a kind of pidgin between us, using the earth to add meaning to audible words. Her words are simply, “I’m older,” while a whitter of subsidence adds the nuancing deformation of time. She is metamorphic, having transformed to bear unbearable pressure. To make this telling simpler, I will translate it all as words, except where I cannot.)

“It would be good if we were as sharp as you now,” I reply wearily. I am not whining. Rebalancing days are always hard. “Give us this context, then, so the onyx will listen and my head can stop hurting.”

Kelenli sighs. “There’s nothing within these walls on which you can sharpen yourself.” (Crumble of resentment, ground up and quickly scattered. They have kept you so safe and sheltered.) “But I think there’s a way I can help you and the others do that, if I can get you out of this place.”

“Help me … sharpen myself?”

(She soothes me with a polishing stroke. It is not a kindness that you are kept so dull.) “You need to understand more about yourself. What you are.”

I don’t understand why she thinks I don’t understand. “I’m a tool.”

She says: “If you’re a tool, shouldn’t you be honed as fine as possible?”

Her voice is serene. And yet a pent, angry jitter of the entire ambient—air molecules shivering, strata beneath us compressing, a dissonant grinding whine at the limit of our ability to sess—tells me that Kelenli hates what I have just said. I turn my head to her and find myself fascinated by the way this dichotomy fails to show in her face. It’s another way she’s like us. We have long since learned not to show pain or fear or sorrow in any space aboveground or below the sky. The conductors tell us we are built to be like statues—cold, immovable, silent. We aren’t certain why they believe we actually are this way; after all, we are as warm to the touch as they. We feel emotion, as they seem to, although we do seem less inclined to display it in face or body language. Perhaps this is because we have earthtalk? (Which they don’t seem to notice. This is good. In the earth, we may be ourselves.) It has never been clear to us whether we were built wrong, or whether their understanding of us is wrong. Or whether either matters.

Kelenli is outwardly calm while she burns inside. I watch her for so long that abruptly she comes back to herself and catches me. She smiles. “I think you like me.”

I consider the possible implications of this. “Not that way,” I say, out of habit. I have had to explain this to junior conductors or other staff on occasion. We are made like statues in this way as well—a design implementation that worked in this case, leaving us capable of rutting but disinterested in the attempt, and infertile should we bother. Is Kelenli the same? No, the conductors said she was made different in only one way. She has our powerful, complex, flexible sessapinae, which no other people in the world possess. Otherwise she’s like them.

“How fortunate that I wasn’t talking about sex.” There’s a drawling hum of amusement from her; it both bothers and pleases me. I don’t know why.

Oblivious to my sudden confusion, Kelenli gets to her feet. “I’ll be back,” she says, and leaves.

She doesn’t return for several days. She remains a detached part of our last network, though, so she is present for our wakings, our meals, our defecations, our inchoate dreams when we sleep, our pride in ourselves and each other. It doesn’t feel like watching when she does it, even if she is watching. I cannot speak for the others, but I like having her around.

Not all of the others do like Kelenli. Gaewha in particular is belligerent about it, and she sends this through our private discussion. “She appears just as we lose Tetlewha? Just as the project concludes? We’ve worked hard to become what we are. Will they praise her for our work, when it’s done?”

“She’s only a standby,” I say, trying to be the voice of