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now sleep was the furthest thing from her mind.
    The membranes slid sideways, shapes and light becoming clearer as they did so. She took in the cockpit: Steven and Alis, still at work; Rizzo behind them, concerned only that whatever was left of her weaponry would still function if required; Thula stretched out across three chairs, seemingly asleep, the presence of the alien threat off their bow less worthy of his concern than the possibility of snatching some much-needed rest after the events of the previous days. Meia and Paul were still absent.
    Go on, thought Syl. Do it. Explore them. You know you can. You’ve already done it a little, and none of them even noticed.
    No, that wasn’t true. She hadn’t tried it on Alis or Meia—especially not Meia. They were different. Their intelligence was artificial, but, conversely, they were also more sensitive in their way than any of the others. Like Syl, Meia and Alis were also altering, mutating. They were capable of emotional responses, and that was most certainly not part of their original programming. For Syl, the only surprising aspect of the Mechs’ evolution was that their creators had not anticipated it. Their framework might have been plastic and metal, but they were essentially biomechanical: advanced models fitted with ProGen skin, flesh, and internal organs. ProGen was grown in laboratories, but it was the same material that was used in surgery on Illyri, replacing damaged tissue with its artificial equivalent. The point about ProGen was that it formed neural connections. On a nanotechnological level, it repaired damaged pathways. You could feel someone’s touch on your ProGen skin, and taste a kiss with your ProGen lips and tongue. And each new version of ProGen incorporated lessons learned from the previous one. Its nanobots adapted.
    Syl forced her body to relax, in imitation of sleep. Her remarkable eyes became like vivid golden marbles, both absorbing and reflecting the light. Her thoughts were racing. Thinking about the concepts that had apparently come lately to the Mechs—sensation, emotion—brought her back to Paul, and the other manifestation of her gifts that she had so far thought best to keep from him. She allowed her mind to move through the Nomad , searching for him. She encountered Meia along the way, but slipped around her. It was Paul she wanted. She found him in the captain’s cabin. She should not be doing this, she knew. It was wrong, an invasion of his privacy that should have been beneath her, and yet what girl has not wished she could know a boy’s deepest, secret musings?
    Syl entered Paul’s head, and read his thoughts. Just as with the alien intelligence, she experienced it not as coherent pieces of logic or emotion but as disparate clouds of color and banks of sound, within which could be found scattered images, voices, words. She saw his mother— green yellow warmth love fear miss you die not die sorry father sorry —and Steven— orange green anger envy loyalty love Alis danger home mother sorry sacrifice live —before she came to herself. She felt and saw blue and red, hints of green and black, a mass of confused emotions, but two that overwhelmed most of the rest, swirling together like smoke: fear love fear love love Syl love fear love fear anger love fear anger Syl.
    She left him, and returned to herself. She was aware of a figure standing before her. Meia was staring down at her.
    â€œWhat?” asked Syl.
    â€œYou’re not sleeping,” said Meia. “Which raises the question of what you are doing.”
    She watched Syl for a moment longer before going to assist Alis and Steven with their checks.

CHAPTER 6
    T he Nomad ’s progress halted when they were about a mile from the alien vessel.
    â€œWhat’s happening?” said Paul.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Alis.
    â€œTry asking them.”
    â€œIt hasn’t worked before.”
    â€œYou