The brain of Mark Cafarelli had only evolved logic as a tool in pursuit of social and physical survival. He did not question his aversion to General Graa, only marked him off in his mind as "bad." Judgment completed, he felt no need to do anything else.

Koen's brain had evolved to do the same thing as Mark's, and all the scientific training he'd received did him no good without information. Because Mark did not say anything about his showers, Koen did not know about them. He therefore lacked the information to conclude that Mark was being as cruel to himself as Graa was to Grumbles. Or as kind.

Koen only knew that Mr. Grumbles was in pain. He buzzed with empathy and growing anger. He sniffed. He cursed.

"The meat is burning!"

"I am impressed with your nose," said General Graa.

Koen tugged on the door's release catch. "How do I open this thing?"

"Crank the wheel. Secretary, fetch the tongs."

Koen opened the forge and grabbed a pair of blackened tongs offered by Mr. Grumbles. He pulled the spitting mold out of the heat and cast around for a bottle of wine or cup of stock to deglaze with.

"Don't thrash around so much," said Graa from his shoulder.

"Water," said Koen. "No, never mind." He pulled a handful of leaves out of one of the eggs and squeezed it over the meat. Another. He did the same with the wrinkled, yellow, apple-ish fruits, but didn't get much fluid out of them. "Something to stir with…" He should have all this stuff ready. What had he been thinking, just chucking the meat into the heat with no preparation? He'd been thinking he wanted to get out of here as fast as possible.

Koen stirred his non-stamppot as best he could with the tongs. "It isn't burned too badly." He stood, stretching his back, and trying to think of a polite way to tell General Graa to get the hell off of his shoulder. "Don't feed it to Mr. Grumbles until it's cool."

"I order you to feed it to him," said Mr. Graa. "And Human Mark, too."

"I want to go," said Koen honestly.

This time, he did look to Mark, who fell back hard onto his super-power.

"Don't bail out on us again."

Koen stiffened, the whites of his eyes showing.

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"Whoa there!" said General Graa. "Easy, boy."

"I won't!" Koen said, hand on heart. "Abandon!" The medallion mold rattled in the tongs.

Mark hid his shock. That lever had produced a much stronger reaction than he'd thought it would.

"You mistreat him," said General Graa.

"No." Koen closed his eyes. "You're mistreating Mr. Grumbles!"

Mark held his breath, cursing himself.

"Clarify?" said Graa. "I do not mistreat Mr. Grumbles. I cherish my steed and will expend lavish resources on his well-being."

Koen utterly failed to believe him.

The problem with self-awareness is that it is expensive. Nets of neurons simulated by nets of neurons still burn real calories, and this cost can climb quickly as recursion increases. I'm thinking about thinking about thinking about… There have to be safety cut-offs. Humans generally find they have more rewarding things to do than gaze inward, and even if they do expend the time and effort, there's a limit to how fine-grained their awareness can ever be.

Memories, predictions, passions, and impulses sleeted through Koen's brain, scintillating briefly in the light of his mind before melting into unrecoverable slush. Only occasionally did a hailstone grow heavy enough to smack him in the consciousness.

He took a step toward the door. He wasn't abandoning anyone. He was done cooking. Done! "Mark, let's go. General Graa, order your steed to grab these tongs before I drop them."

"Your order of hierarchy is incorrect," said Secretary.

Graa bobbed his head, making faint kek kek noises. "I am disappointed. This is the same as what he did last time." He spread his shoulders. "I order you to redirect your emotional valence. And Secretary, let Mr. Grumbles have his food."

Mark scanned Koen's expression and understood most of what was happening. "Um, I think Koen needs to go and plan the next meal. Things we can do better next time." And while his mouth was running, his brain tested possibilities on its own well-trained paths. "Koen's kitchen in our embassy is a much better place to make food for humans, isn't that right, Koen?"

"Clarify: do you mean hominids?" asked Graa. "Catering for Mr. Grumbles?"

"Yes exactly. I think catering would, ah, serve Mr. Grumbles best. At least for now. Right, Koen?"

Pain and sorrow stretched like a surgical mask across Koen's face. He looked at Mr. Grumbles, who started to cry. Why wouldn't this bird get off his shoulder?

"But what about his behavioral issues?" General Graa fluffed out his head feathers and wiped his beak on Koen's cheek, as if probing for tears. "I am anxious and demanding. I expected you to fix him."

"Well these things take time," Mark said as Koen, still frowning advanced on the ape-man and rider.

Rack rack, Secretary called. "I'm surprised."

Koen put his arms around Mr. Grumbles.

Koen could not say anything, not when his translator bug might hear him, but the thought was clear in his head. His throat and tongue pulsed with the unspoken vow.

I will rescue you.