He set the tip to skin and dragged it down. The skin split. A short shallow opening along the muscle line. Three inches. Blood rose darker than the chest blood, slower, the heart no longer pushing blood around the body. He worked the tip of the blade into the cut. Found it an inch under skin, embedded in muscle. Levered it up between the fibres with the blade tip. It popped free, wet and sticky. He lifted it with his fingers, holding it up to the light.
It beeped.
He stood and held it in his open palm so the warriors at the treeline could see. The chip was small and dark, no larger than a fingernail, and the small light at its face was blinking at the rhythm of a heartbeat.
“Every Sky-person carries a marker,” he said in Na’vi, low and exact. “They do not trust their own. They trust this.”
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