“Yes.”
“The Itran Tetrarchy! Is that where you found the gun?”
“No. It’s where I got my money.”
Anaander Mianaai frankly stared in astonishment. “They let you leave with that much money?”
“One of the tetrarchs owed me a favor.”
“That must have been some favor.”
“It was.”
“Do they really practice human sacrifice there? Or is this,” she gestured to the severed head the figure held, “just metaphorical?”
“It’s complicated.”
She made a breathy hmf. Seivarden knelt silent and motionless.
“The medic said you needed me.”
Five-year-old Anaander Mianaai laughed. “And so I do.”
“In that case,” I said, “go fuck yourself.” Which she could actually, literally do, in fact.
“Half your anger is for yourself.” She ate the last bite of pastry and brushed her small gloved hands together, showering fragments of sugar icing onto the grass. “But it’s such a monumentally enormous anger even half is quite devastating.”
“I could be ten times as angry,” I said, “and it would mean nothing if I was unarmed.”
Her mouth quirked in a half-smile. “I haven’t gotten to where I am by laying aside useful instruments.”
“You destroy the instruments of your enemy wherever you find them,” I said. “You told me so yourself. And I won’t be useful to you.”
“I’m the right one,” the child said. “I’ll sing for you if you like, though I don’t know if it will work with this voice. This is going to spread to other systems. It already has, I just haven’t seen the reply signal from the neighboring provincial palaces yet. I need you on my side.”
I tried sitting up straighter. It seemed to work. “It doesn’t matter whose side anyone is on. It doesn’t matter who wins, because either way it will be you and nothing will really change.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” said five-year-old Anaander Mianaai. “And maybe in some ways you’re right. A lot of things haven’t really changed, a lot of things might stay the same no matter which side of me is uppermost. But tell me, do you think it made no difference to Lieutenant Awn, which of me was on board that day?”
I had no answer for that.
“If you’ve got power and money and connections, some differences won’t change anything. Or if you’re resigned to dying in the near future, which I gather is your position at the moment. It’s the people without the money and the power, who desperately want to live, for those people small things aren’t small at all. What you call no difference is life and death to them.”
“And you care so much for the insignificant and the powerless,” I said. “I’m sure you stay awake nights worrying for them. Your heart must bleed.”
“Don’t come all self-righteous on me,” said Anaander Mianaai. “You served me without a qualm for two thousand years. You know what that means, better than almost anyone else here. And I do care. But in, perhaps, a more abstract way than you do, at least these days. Still, this is all my own doing. And you’re right, I can’t exactly rid myself of myself. I could use a reminder of that. It might be best if I had a conscience that was armed and independent.”
“Last time someone tried to be your conscience,” I said, thinking of Ime, and that Mercy of Sarrse soldier who had refused her orders, “she ended up dead.”
“You mean at Ime. You mean the soldier Mercy of Sarrse One Amaat One,” the child said, grinning as if at a particularly delightful memory. “I have never been dressed down like that in my long life. She cursed me at the end of it, and tossed her poison back like it was arrack.”
Poison. “You didn’t shoot her?”
“Gunshot wounds make such a mess,” the child said, still grinning. “Which reminds me.” She reached beside herself and brushed the air with one small gloved hand. Suddenly a box sat there, light-suckingly black. “Citizen Seivarden.”
Seivarden leaned forward, took the box.
“I’m well aware,” said Anaander Mianaai, “that you weren’t speaking metaphorically when you said your anger had to be armed to mean anything. I wasn’t either, when I said my conscience should be. Just so you know I mean what I’m saying. And just so you don’t do anything foolish out of ignorance, I need to explain just what it is you have.”
“You know how it works?” But she’d had the others for a thousand years. More than enough time to figure it out.
“To a point.” Anaander Mianaai smiled wryly. “A bullet, as I’m sure you already know, does what it does because the gun it’s fired from gives it a large amount of kinetic energy. The bullet hits something, and that energy has to go somewhere.” I didn’t answer, didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “The bullets in the Garseddai gun,” five-year-old Mianaai continued, “aren’t really bullets. They’re… devices. Dormant, until the gun arms them. At that point, it doesn’t matter how much kinetic energy they have leaving the gun. From the moment of impact, it makes however much energy it needs to cut through the target for precisely 1.11 meters. And then it stops.”
“Stops.” I was aghast.
“One point eleven meters?” asked Seivarden, kneeling beside me. Puzzled.
Mianaai made a dismissive gesture. “Aliens. Different standard units, I assume. Theoretically, once it was armed, you could toss one of those bullets gently against something and it would burn right through it. But you can only arm them with the gun. As far as I can tell there’s nothing in the universe those bullets can’t cut through.”
“Where does all that energy come from?” I asked. Still aghast. Appalled. No wonder I had only needed one shot to take out that oxygen tank. “It has to come from somewhere.”
“You’d think,” said Mianaai. “And you’re about to ask me how it knows how much it needs, or the difference between air and what you’re shooting at. And I don’t know that either. You see why I made that treaty with the Presger. And why I’m so anxious to keep its terms.”
“And anxious,” I said, “to destroy them.” The aim, the fervent desire, of the other Anaander, I guessed.
“I didn’t get where I am by having reasonable goals,” said Anaander Mianaai. “You’re not to speak of this to anyone.” Before I could react, she continued, “I could force you to keep quiet. But I won’t. You’re clearly a significant piece in this cast, and it would be improper of me to interfere with your trajectory.”
“I hadn’t thought you would be superstitious,” I said.
“I wouldn’t say superstitious. But I have other things to attend to. Few of me are left here—few enough that the exact number is sensitive information. And there’s a lot to do, so I really don’t have time to sit here talking.
“Mercy of Kalr needs a captain. And lieutenants, actually. You can probably promote them from your own crew.”
“I can’t be a captain. I’m not a citizen. I’m not even human.”
“You are if I say you are,” she said.
“Ask Seivarden.” Seivarden had set the box on my lap, and now once again knelt silent beside my chair. “Or Skaaiat.”
“Seivarden isn’t going anywhere you aren’t going,” said the Lord of the Radch. “She made that clear to me while you were asleep.”
“Then Skaaiat.”
“She already told me to fuck off.”
“What a coincidence.”
“And really, I do need her here.” She clambered to her feet, barely tall enough to meet my eyes without looking up, even sitting as I was. “Medical says you need a week at the least. I can give you a few additional days to inspect Mercy of Kalr and take on whatever supplies you might need. It’ll be easier for everyone if you just say yes now and appoint Seivarden your first lieutenant and let her take care of things. But you’ll manage it the way you want.” She brushed grass and dirt off her legs. “As soon as you’re ready I need you to get to Athoek Station as quickly as you can. It’s two gates away. Or it would be if Sword of Tle
n hadn’t taken that gate down.” Two gates away, Inspector Supervisor Skaaiat had said, of Lieutenant Awn’s sister. “What else are you going to do with yourself?”
“I actually have another option?” She might have named me a citizen, but she could take it back as easily. “Besides death, I mean.”
She made a gesture of ambiguity. “As much as any of us. Which is to say, possibly none at all. But we can talk philosophy later. We’ve both got things to do right now.” And she left.
Seivarden gathered my things, repacked them, and helped me to my feet, and out. She didn’t speak until we were on the concourse. “It’s a ship. Even if it is just a Mercy.”
I had slept for some time, it seemed, long enough for the shards of glass to be cleared away, long enough for people to come out, though not in great numbers. Everyone looked slightly haggard, looked as though they’d be easily startled. Any conversations were low, subdued, so the place felt deserted even with people there. I turned my head to look at Seivarden, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re the captain here. Take it if you want it.”
“No.” We stopped by a bench, and she lowered me onto it. “If I were still a captain someone would owe me back pay. I officially left the service when I was declared dead a thousand years ago. If I want back in, I have to start all over again. Besides.” She hesitated, and then sat beside me. “Besides, when I came out of that suspension pod, it was like everyone and everything had failed me. The Radch had failed me. My ship had failed me.” I frowned, and she made a placatory gesture. “No, it’s not fair. None of it’s fair, it’s just how I felt. And I’d failed myself. But you hadn’t. You didn’t.” I didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t seem to expect an answer.
“Mercy of Kalr doesn’t need a captain,” I said, after four seconds of silence. “Maybe it doesn’t want one.”
“You can’t refuse your assignment.”
“I can if I have enough money to support myself.”
Seivarden frowned, took a breath as though she wanted to argue, but didn’t. After another moment of silence, she said, “You could go into the temple and ask for a cast.”
I wondered if the image of foreign piety I’d constructed had convinced her I had some sort of faith, or if she was merely too Radchaai not to think the toss of a handful of omens would answer any pressing question, persuade me toward the right action. I made a small, doubtful gesture. “I really don’t feel the need. You can, if you want. Or toss right now.” If she had something with a front and a back, she could make a throw. “If it comes up heads you stop bothering me about it and get me some tea.”
She made a quick, amused ha. And then said, “Oh,” and reached into her jacket. “Skaaiat gave me this to give you.” Skaaiat. Not that Awer.
Seivarden opened her hand, showed me a gold disk two centimeters in diameter. A tiny, leafy border stamped around its edge, slightly off center, surrounding a name. AWN ELMING.
“I don’t think you want to throw it, though,” Seivarden said. And, when I didn’t answer, “She said you really should have it.”
While I was still trying to find something to say, and a voice to say it with, a Security officer approached, cautious. Said, voice deferential, “Excuse me, citizen. Station would like to speak with you. There’s a console right over there.” She gestured aside.
“Don’t you have implants?” Seivarden asked.
“I concealed them. Disabled some. Station probably can’t see them.” And I didn’t know where my handheld was. Probably somewhere in my luggage.
I had to get up and walk to the console, and stand while I spoke. “You wanted to speak to me, Station, here I am.” The week of rest Anaander Mianaai had spoken of became more and more inviting.
“Citizen Breq Mianaai,” said Station in its flat, untroubled voice.
Mianaai. My hand still curled around Lieutenant Awn’s memorial pin, I looked at Seivarden coming behind me with my luggage. “There was no point in making you any more upset than you already were,” she said, as though I’d spoken.
The Lord of the Radch had said independent, and I was unsurprised to discover she hadn’t meant it. But the move she’d chosen to undercut it did surprise me.
“Citizen Breq Mianaai,” Station said again, from the console, voice as smooth and serene as ever, but I thought the repetition was slightly malicious. My suspicion was confirmed when Station continued. “I would like you to leave here.”
“Would you.” No answer more cogent than that came to my mind. “Why?”
A half second of delay, and then the answer. “Look around you.” I didn’t have the energy to actually do that, so I took the imperative as rhetorical. “Medical is overwhelmed with injured and dying citizens. Many of my facilities are damaged. My residents are anxious and afraid. I am anxious and afraid. I don’t even mention the confusion surrounding the palace proper. And you are the cause of all this.”
“I’m not.” I reminded myself that, childish and petty as it seemed now, Station wasn’t very different from what I had been, and in some ways the job it did was far more complicated and urgent than mine, caring as it did for hundreds of thousands, even millions of citizens. “And my leaving won’t change any of that.”
“I don’t care,” said Station, calm. The petulance I detected was certainly my imagination. “I advise you to leave now, while it’s possible. It may become difficult at some point in the near future.”
Station couldn’t order me to leave. Strictly speaking it shouldn’t have spoken to me the way it had, not if I was, in fact, a citizen. “It can’t make you leave,” Seivarden said, echoing part of my thoughts.
“But it can express its disapproval.” Quietly. Subtly. “We do it all the time. Mostly nobody notices, except they visit another ship or station and suddenly find things inexplicably more comfortable.”
A second of silence from Seivarden, and then, “Oh.” From the sound, she was remembering her days on Justice of Toren, and the move to Sword of Nathtas.
I leaned forward, my forehead against the wall adjoining the console. “Are you finished, Station?”
“Mercy of Kalr would like to speak with you.”
Five seconds of silence. I sighed, knowing I couldn’t win this game, shouldn’t even try to play it. “I will speak to Mercy of Kalr now, Station.”
“Justice of Toren,” said Mercy of Kalr from the console.
The name caught me by surprise, started exhausted tears. I blinked them away. “I’m only One Esk,” I said. And swallowed. “Nineteen.”
“Captain Vel is under arrest,” said Mercy of Kalr. “I don’t know if she’s going to be reeducated or executed. And my lieutenants as well.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault. They made their own choices.”
“So who’s in command?” I asked. Beside me Seivarden stood silent, one hand on my arm. I wanted to lie down and sleep, just that, nothing else.
“One Amaat One.” The senior soldier in Mercy of Kalr’s highest ranking unit, that would be. Unit leader. Ancillary units hadn’t needed leaders.
“She can be captain, then.”
“No,” said Mercy of Kalr. “She’ll make a good lieutenant but she’s not ready to be captain. She’s doing her best but she’s overwhelmed.”
“Mercy of Kalr,” I said. “If I can be a captain, why can’t you be your own?”
“That would be ridiculous,” answered Mercy of Kalr. Its voice was calm as ever but I thought it was exasperated. “My crew needs a captain. But then, I’m just a Mercy, aren’t I. I’m sure the Lord of the Radch would give you a Sword if you asked. Not that a Sword captain would be any happier to be sent to a Mercy, but I suppose it’s better than no captain at all.”
“No, Ship, it’s not…”
Seivarden interrupted, voice severe. “Cut it out, Ship.”
“You’re not one of my officers,” said Mercy of Kalr from the console, and now the impassivity of its voice audibly broke, if only slightly.
&n
bsp; “Not yet,” Seivarden replied.
I began to suspect a setup, but Seivarden wouldn’t have made me stand like this in the middle of the concourse. Not right now. “Ship, I can’t be what you’ve lost. You can’t ever have that back, I’m sorry.” And I couldn’t have back what I’d lost, either. “I can’t stand here anymore.”
“Ship,” said Seivarden, stern. “Your captain is still recovering from her injuries and Station has her standing here in the middle of the concourse.”
“I’ve sent a shuttle,” said Mercy of Kalr after a pause that was, I supposed, meant to express what it thought of Station. “You’ll be more comfortable aboard, Captain.”
“I’m not…” I began, but Mercy of Kalr had already signed off.
“Breq,” said Seivarden, pulling me away from the wall I was leaning on. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“You know you’ll be more comfortable aboard. More comfortable than here.”
I didn’t answer, just let Seivarden pull me along.
“All that money won’t mean much if more gates go and ships are stranded and supplies are cut off.” We were headed, I saw, toward a bank of lifts. “It’s all falling apart. This isn’t going to just be happening here, it’s going to fall apart all over Radch space, isn’t it?” It was, but I didn’t have the energy to contemplate it. “Maybe you think you can stand aside and watch everything happen. But I don’t really think you can.”
No. If I could, I wouldn’t have been here. Seivarden wouldn’t have been here, I’d have left her in the snow on Nilt, or never have gone to Nilt to begin with.
The lift doors closed us in, briskly. A little more briskly than usual, though perhaps it was just my imagination that Station was expressing its eagerness to see me gone. But the lift didn’t move. “Docks, Station,” I said. Defeated. There was, in truth, nowhere else for me to go. It was what I was made to do, what I was. And even if the tyrant’s protestations were insincere, which they ultimately had to be, no matter her intentions at this moment, still she was right. My actions would make some sort of difference, even if small. Some sort of difference, maybe, to Lieutenant Awn’s sister. And I had already failed Lieutenant Awn once. Badly. I wouldn’t a second time.