Mikhailis stood motionless, boots planted in the soft moss flooring of the secret chamber. The biopod cradle before him—moments ago cradling a strange sleeper—now lay empty, its bark-like shell slowly sealing in on itself as if embarrassed to be caught without its guest. The faint leaf he'd recovered glimmered in his palm, pulsing in and out with a weak emerald glow, a heartbeat that wasn't his yet somehow echoed inside his chest.
He turned the leaf over, watching thin gold veins inside shimmer. What are you, really? A clue? A warning? The questions piled on top of each other so quickly he could almost hear them clatter, but none settled into a sensible answer.
Rodion hovered beside him in compact observation mode, white chassis dimmed to a soft glow so as not to startle the Grove's delicate roots. The AI-orb's voice, usually clipped and clinical, dropped to something almost soothing.
