“Not proof. Not enough,” Mianaai said, oblivious. “But dangerous. Awer ought to tip my way.” Why she thought this, I didn’t immediately understand. Awer had come from the Radch itself, from the start had had wealth and influence enough to allow it to criticize, and criticize it did, though generally with shrewdness enough to keep itself out of real trouble.
I had known Awer House for a long time, had carried its young lieutenants, known them as captains of other ships. Granted, no Awer suited for military service exhibited her house’s tendencies to their utmost extent. An overly keen sense of injustice or a tendency to mysticism didn’t mesh well with annexations. Nor with wealth and rank—any Awer’s moral outrage inevitably smelled slightly of hypocrisy, considering the comforts and privileges such an ancient house enjoyed, and while some injustices were unignorably obvious to them, some others they never saw.
In any event, Lieutenant Skaaiat’s sardonic practicality wasn’t foreign to her house. It was only a milder, more livable version of Awer’s tendency to moral outrage.
Doubtless each Anaander thought her cause was the more just. (The more proper, the more beneficial. Certainly.) Assuming Awer’s penchant for just causes, the citizens of that house ought to support the proper side. Given they knew anything like sides were involved at all.
This assumed, of course, that any part at all of Anaander Mianaai thought any Awer was guided by a passion for justice and not by self-interest covered over with self-righteousness. And any given Awer could, at various times, be guided by either.
Still. It was possible some part of Anaander Mianaai thought that Awer (or any particular Awer) needed only to be convinced of the justice of her cause to champion it. And surely she knew that if Awer—any Awer—could not be convinced, it would be her implacable enemy.
“Suleir, now…” Anaander Mianaai turned to One Var, standing silent at the table. “Dariet Suleir seems to be an ally of Lieutenant Awn. Why?”
The question troubled me for reasons I couldn’t quite identify. “I can’t be entirely certain, my lord, but I believe Lieutenant Dariet considers Lieutenant Awn to be an able officer, and of course she defers to Lieutenant Awn as decade senior.” And, perhaps, was secure enough in her own standing not to resent Lieutenant Awn’s having authority over her. Unlike Lieutenant Issaaia. But I didn’t say that.
“Nothing to do with political sympathies, then?”
“I am at a loss to understand what you mean, my lord,” I said, quite sincerely but with growing alarm.
Another Mianaai body spoke up. “Are you playing stupid with me, Ship?”
“Begging my lord’s pardon,” I answered, still speaking through One Var, “if I knew what my lord was looking for I would be better able to supply relevant data.”
In answer, Mianaai said, “Justice of Toren, when did I last visit you?”
If those accesses and overrides had been valid, I would have been utterly unable to conceal anything from the Lord of the Radch. “Two hundred three years, four months, one week, and five days ago, my lord,” I lied, now sure of the significance of the question.
“Give me your memories of the incident in the temple,” Mianaai commanded, and I complied.
And lied again. Because while nearly every instant of each of those individual streams of memory and data was unaltered, that moment of horror and doubt when one segment feared it might have to shoot Lieutenant Awn was, impossibly, missing.
It seems very straightforward when I say “I.” At the time, “I” meant Justice of Toren, the whole ship and all its ancillaries. A unit might be very focused on what it was doing at that particular moment, but it was no more apart from “me” than my hand is while it’s engaged in a task that doesn’t require my full attention.
Nearly twenty years later “I” would be a single body, a single brain. That division, I–Justice of Toren and I–One Esk, was not, I have come to think, a sudden split, not an instant before which “I” was one and after which “I” was “we.” It was something that had always been possible, always potential. Guarded against. But how did it go from potential to real, incontrovertible, irrevocable?
On one level the answer is simple—it happened when all of Justice of Toren but me was destroyed. But when I look closer I seem to see cracks everywhere. Did the singing contribute, the thing that made One Esk different from all other units on the ship, indeed in the fleets? Perhaps. Or is anyone’s identity a matter of fragments held together by convenient or useful narrative, that in ordinary circumstances never reveals itself as a fiction? Or is it really a fiction?
I don’t know the answer. But I do know that, though I can see hints of the potential split going back a thousand years or more, that’s only hindsight. The first I noticed even the bare possibility that I–Justice of Toren might not also be I–One Esk, was that moment that Justice of Toren edited One Esk’s memory of the slaughter in the temple of Ikkt. The moment I—“I”—was surprised by it.
It makes the history hard to convey. Because still, “I” was me, unitary, one thing, and yet I acted against myself, contrary to my interests and desires, sometimes secretly, deceiving myself as to what I knew and did. And it’s difficult for me even now to know who performed what actions, or knew which information. Because I was Justice of Toren. Even when I wasn’t. Even if I’m not anymore.
Above, on Esk, Lieutenant Dariet asked for admittance to Lieutenant Awn’s quarters, found Lieutenant Awn lying on her bunk, staring sightlessly up, gloved hands behind her head. “Awn,” she began, stopped, made a rueful smile. “I’m here to pry.”
“I can’t talk about it,” answered Lieutenant Awn, still staring up, dismayed and angry but not letting it reach her voice.
In the Var decade room, Mianaai asked, “What are Dariet Suleir’s political sympathies?”
“I believe she has none to speak of,” I answered, with One Var’s mouth.
Lieutenant Dariet stepped into Lieutenant Awn’s quarters, sat on the edge of the bed, next to Lieutenant Awn’s unbooted feet. “Not about that. Have you heard from Skaaiat?”
Lieutenant Awn closed her eyes. Still dismayed. Still angry. But with a slightly different feel. “Why should I have?”
Lieutenant Dariet was silent for three seconds. “I like Skaaiat,” she said, finally. “I know she likes you.”
“I was there. I was there and convenient. You know, we all know we’ll be moving some time soon, and once we do Skaaiat has no reason to care whether or not I exist anymore. And even if…” Lieutenant Awn stopped. Swallowed. Breathed. “Even if she did,” she continued, her voice just barely less steady than before, “it wouldn’t matter. I’m not anyone she wants to be connected with, not anymore. If I ever was.”
Below, Anaander Mianaai said, “Lieutenant Dariet seems pro-reform.”
That puzzled me. But One Var had no opinion, of course, being only One Var, and it had no physical response to my puzzlement. I saw suddenly, clearly, that I was using One Var as a mask, though I didn’t understand why or how I would do such a thing. Or why the idea would occur to me now. “Begging my lord’s pardon, I don’t see that as a political stance.”
“Don’t you?”
“No, my lord. You ordered the reforms. Loyal citizens will support them.”
That Mianaai smiled. The other stood, left the decade room, to walk the Var corridors, inspecting. Not speaking to or acknowledging in any way the segments of One Var it passed.
Lieutenant Awn said, to Lieutenant Dariet’s skeptical silence, “It’s easy for you. Nobody thinks you’re kneeling for advantage when you go to bed with someone. Or getting above yourself. Nobody wonders what your partner could be thinking, or how you ever got here.”
“I’ve told you before, you’re too sensitive about that.”
“Am I?” Lieutenant Awn opened her eyes, levered herself up on her elbows. “How do you know? Have you experienced it much? I have. All the time.”
“That,” said Mianaai, in the decade room, “is a more compli
cated issue than many realize. Lieutenant Awn is pro-reform, of course.” I wished I had physical data from Mianaai, so I could interpret the edge in her voice when she named Lieutenant Awn. “And Dariet, perhaps, though how strongly is a question. And the rest of the officers? Who here are pro-reform, and who anti-?”
In Lieutenant Awn’s quarters, Lieutenant Dariet sighed. “I just think you worry too much about it. Who cares what people like that say?”
“It’s easy not to care when you’re rich, and the social equal of people like that.”
“That sort of thing shouldn’t matter,” Lieutenant Dariet insisted.
“It shouldn’t. But it does.”
Lieutenant Dariet frowned. Angry, and frustrated. This conversation had happened before, had gone the same way each time. “Well. Regardless. You should send Skaaiat a message. What is there to lose? If she doesn’t answer, she doesn’t answer. But maybe…” Lieutenant Dariet lifted one shoulder, and her arm just slightly. A gesture that said, Take a chance and see what fate deals you.
If I hesitated in answering Anaander Mianaai’s question for even the smallest instant, she would know the overrides weren’t working. One Var was very, very impassive. I named a few officers who had definite opinions one way or the other. “The rest,” I finished, “are content to follow orders and perform their duties without worrying too much about policy. As far as I can tell.”
“They might be swayed one way or the other,” Mianaai observed.
“I couldn’t say, my lord.” My sense of dread increased, but in a detached way. Perhaps the absolute unresponsiveness of my ancillaries made the feeling seem distant and unreal. Ships I knew who had exchanged their ancillary crews for human ones had said their experience of emotion had changed, though this didn’t seem quite like the data they had shown me.
The sound of One Esk singing came faintly to Lieutenant Awn and Lieutenant Dariet, a simple song with two parts.
I was walking, I was walking
When I met my love
I was in the street walking
When I saw my true love
I said, “She is more beautiful than jewels, lovelier than jade or lapis, silver or gold.”
“I’m glad One Esk is itself again,” said Lieutenant Dariet. “That first day was eerie.”
“Two Esk didn’t sing,” Lieutenant Awn pointed out.
“Right, but…” Lieutenant Dariet gestured doubt. “It wasn’t right.” She looked speculatively at Lieutenant Awn.
“I can’t talk about it,” said Lieutenant Awn, and lay back down, crossing her arms over her eyes.
On the command deck Hundred Captain Rubran met with the decade commanders, drank tea, talked about schedules and leave times.
“You haven’t mentioned Hundred Captain Rubran,” said Mianaai, in the Var decade room.
I hadn’t. I knew Captain Rubran extremely well, knew her every breath, every twitch of every muscle. She had been my captain for fifty-six years. “I have never heard her express an opinion on the matter,” I said, quite truthfully.
“Never? Then it’s certain she has one and is concealing it.”
This struck me as something of a double bind. Speak and your possession of an opinion was plain, clear to anyone. Refrain from speaking and still this was proof of an opinion. If Captain Rubran were to say, Truly, I have no opinion on the matter, would that merely be another proof she had one?
“Surely she’s been present when others have discussed it,” Mianaai continued. “What have her feelings been in such cases?”
“Exasperation,” I answered, through One Var. “Impatience. Sometimes boredom.”
“Exasperation,” mused Mianaai. “At what, I wonder?” I did not know the answer, so I said nothing. “Her family connections are such that I can’t be certain where her sympathies are most likely to lie. And some of them I don’t want to alienate before I can move openly. I have to tread carefully with Captain Rubran. But so will she.”
She meaning, of course, herself.
There had been no attempt to discover my sympathies. Perhaps—no, certainly—they were irrelevant. And I was already well along the path the other Mianaai had set me on. These few Mianaais, and the four segments of One Var thawed for her service, only made the Var deck seem emptier, and all the decks between here and my engines. Hundreds of thousands of ancillaries slept in my holds, and they would likely be removed within the next few years, either stored or destroyed, never waking again. And I would be placed in orbit somewhere, permanently. My engines almost certainly disabled. Or I would be destroyed outright—though none of us had been so far, and I was fairly sure I would more likely serve as a habitat, or the core of a small station.
Not the life I had been built for.
“No, I can’t be hasty with Rubran Osck. But your Lieutenant Awn is another matter. And perhaps she can be of use in discovering where Awer stands.”
“My lord,” I said, through one of One Var’s mouths. “I am at a loss to understand what’s happening. I would feel a great deal more comfortable if the hundred captain knew you were here.”
“You dislike concealing things from your captain?” Anaander asked, with a tone that was equal parts bitter and amused.
“Yes, my lord. I will, of course, proceed precisely as you order me.” A sudden sense of déjà vu overcame me.
“Of course. I should explain some things.” The sense of déjà vu grew stronger. I had had this conversation before, in almost exactly these circumstances, with the Lord of the Radch. You know that each of your ancillary segments is entirely capable of having its own identity, she would say next. “You know that each of your ancillary segments is entirely capable of having its own identity.”
“Yes.” Every word, familiar. I could feel it, as though we were reciting lines we had memorized. Next she would say, Imagine you became undecided about something.
“Imagine some enemy separated part of you from yourself.”
Not what I had been expecting. What is it people say, when that happens? They’re divided. They’re of two minds.
“Imagine that enemy managed to forge or force its way past all the necessary accesses. And that part of you came back to you—but wasn’t really part of you anymore. But you didn’t realize it. Not right away.”
You and I, we really can be of two minds, can’t we.
“That’s a very alarming thought, my lord.”
“It is,” agreed Anaander Mianaai, all the time sitting in the Var decade room, inspecting the corridors and rooms of the Var deck. Watching Lieutenant Awn, alone again, and miserable. Gesturing through my mind, on the central access deck. Or so she thought. “I don’t know precisely who has done it. I suspect the involvement of the Presger. They have been meddling in our affairs since before the Treaty. And after—five hundred years ago, the best surgicals and correctives were made in Radch space. Now we buy from the Presger. At first only at border stations, but now they’re everywhere. Eight hundred years ago the Translators Office was a collection of minor officials who assisted in the interpretation of extra-Radch intelligence, and who smoothed linguistic problems during annexations. Now they dictate policy. Chief among them the Emissary to the Presger.” The last sentence was spoken with audible distaste. “Before the Treaty, the Presger destroyed a few ships. Now they destroy all of Radch civilization.
“Expansion, annexation, is very expensive. Necessary—it has been from the beginning. From the first, to surround the Radch itself with a buffer zone, protecting it from any sort of attack or interference. Later, to protect those citizens. And to expand the reach of civilization. And…” Mianaai stopped, gave a short, exasperated sigh. “To pay for the previous annexations. To provide wealth for Radchaai in general.”
“My lord, what do you suspect the Presger of having done?” But I knew. Even with my memory obscured and incomplete, I knew.
“Divided me. Corrupted part of me. And the corruption has spread, the other me has been recruiting—not only more parts of me but
also my own citizens. My own soldiers.” My own ships. “My own ships. I can only guess what her goal is. But it can’t be anything good.”
“Do I understand correctly,” I asked, already knowing the answer, “that this other Anaander Mianaai is the force behind the ending of annexations?”
“She will destroy everything I’ve built!” I had never seen the Lord of the Radch so frustrated and angry. Had not thought her capable of it. “Do you realize—there’s no reason you should ever have thought of it—that it’s the appropriation of resources during annexations that drives our economy?”
“I am afraid, my lord, that I am only a troop carrier and have never concerned myself with such things. But what you say makes sense.”
“And you. I doubt you’re looking forward to losing your ancillaries.”
Outside me my distant companions, the Justices parked around the system, sat silent, waiting. How many of them had received this visit—or both these visits? “I am not, my lord.”
“I can’t promise that I can prevent it. I’m not prepared for open warfare. All my moves are in secret, pushing here, pulling there, making sure of my resources and support. But in the end, she is me, and there is little I can do she will not already have thought of. She has outmaneuvered me several times already. It’s why I have been so cautious in approaching you. I wanted to be sure she had not already suborned you.”
I felt it was safer not to comment on that, and instead said, through One Var, “My lord, the guns in the lake, in Ors.” Was that your enemy? I almost asked, but if we were faced with two Anaanders, each opposing the other, how did anyone know which was which?