“No, it never is when you’re the one holding the gun.” I looked over at the Sword of Gurat ancillaries. “Sword of Gurat, I apologize for having Lieutenant Tisarwat seize control of you. It was a matter of life and death or I wouldn’t have done it. I’d appreciate it if you would return Sword of Atagaris’s officers to it. You can stay here if you like, or go if you like. Tisarwat…” She still knelt beside me. “Will you let go of Sword of Gurat, please? And give it whatever keys you have.”
“Yes, sir.” Tisarwat rose. Gestured to the Sword of Gurat ancillaries, who followed her out of the bay. Bo Nine followed them, bowl and fish still in hand.
“Do you truly not understand what you’ve done?” asked Anaander. Visibly distressed. “There is not a single system in Radch space without one or more station AIs. Ultimately every Radchaai life is vulnerable to them.” She looked at Translator Zeiat, climbing to her feet with Sphene’s assistance. But for the blood on her coat, looking as though she had never been shot at all. “Translator, you must listen to me. Ships and stations are part of the infrastructure of Radchaai space. They aren’t people, not the way you’d think of people.”
“I’ll be honest, Lord of the Radch,” said Translator Zeiat, brushing the front of her coat with one white-gloved hand, as though that might clean off the blood. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean by that. I’m willing to accept that person is a word that means something to you, certainly, and I think I might be able to sort of guess what you mean. But really, this business about being a person, that’s apparently so important to you, it means nothing to them. They wouldn’t understand it, no matter how much you tried to explain. They certainly don’t consider it necessary for Significance. So the main question appears to be, do these AIs function as Significant beings? And if so, are they human or not human? You yourself have declared them to be not human. The fleet captain apparently does not dispute that judgment. The question of their Significance will, I suspect, be contentious, but the question has been raised, and I judge it to be a valid one, to be answered at a conclave.” She turned to me. “Now, Fleet Captain. Let’s try this again. I must leave as soon as possible, but I wonder if I might not have a bowl or two of fish sauce first. And some eggs.”
“Of course, Translator,” I said. “Cousin Athoek Station, is there somewhere the translator can get some fish sauce and some eggs in short order?”
“I’ll see to it, Cousin,” said Station from its console.
“I’ll come with you, Translator, if that’s all right,” said Sphene. “If you’ll be so good as to give me a moment. There’s just the small matter of throttling the Usurper.”
“No,” I said.
“What exactly is the point of this republic of yours then, Cousin?”
“I would like the answer to that question as well,” said Sword of Atagaris.
Still leaning against Seivarden, I closed my eyes. “Just let her go. There’s nothing she can do to us now.” And, at another thought, “May I please have my gun back?”
“I don’t want her here,” said Station.
“And I don’t think I want you to have the gun,” said Sword of Atagaris.
“No, no,” said Translator Zeiat. “Far better to give the gun to me.”
“That may be best,” I said, eyes still closed. “And if the tyrant asks nicely enough some ship may agree to take her away. That’s far worse than being throttled, for her.”
“You may have a point, Cousin,” said Sphene.
I lay on a bed in a cubicle in Station Medical. “These prosthetics,” the doctor said to me—not Seivarden’s doctor but another one—“aren’t suitable for hard use.” In one gloved hand she held the remains of my too-fragile prosthetic leg, which she had just removed from what there was of my left leg. “You can’t go running or jumping or skipping on them. They’re really just to let you get around more or less while the limb grows back.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “My own medic warned me. Can’t we make them more durable?”
“I’m sure we can, Fleet Captain. But why go to the trouble? They’re only meant to be used for a month or two. Most people don’t need anything more. Though we might have been able to provide you something a bit stronger, if you’d been on the station when you lost your leg.”
“If I’d been on the station I wouldn’t have lost my leg,” I pointed out.
“And if this”—she hefted the prosthetic—“had been any stronger you’d be here for a gunshot wound.” Athoek Station had shown the confrontation in the docking bay on the official news channels. “Maybe we’d be preparing for your funeral.”
“So I suppose it all works out in the end,” I said.
“I suppose it does,” she said, dubiously. “How is this supposed to work, Fleet Captain? Everyone is walking around like everything is back to normal, like everything hasn’t been upended. Suddenly Station is in charge of everything? Suddenly we’re aliens in our own home? Suddenly all of Radch space is occupied by an alien species, right along with humans?” She shook her head, as though trying to clear it. “What are we supposed to do if Station decides it doesn’t want us?”
“Did you ever ask yourself what you were supposed to do if Anaander Mianaai decided she didn’t want you?”
“That’s different.”
“Only,” I pointed out, “because that had been the normal, expected state of affairs for three thousand years before you were born. You never had reason to question it. Anaander had real power over your life and death, and no personal regard for you, or anyone else you care about. We were all of us no more than counters in her game, and she could—and did—sacrifice us when it suited her.”
“So it’s all right then, that now we’re counters in your game.”
“Fair point,” I admitted. “And I think we’ll be spending the next few years working out what that game actually is. Which I know from personal experience is… uncomfortable. But please believe me when I say that Station’s game will never involve not wanting you.”
The doctor sighed. “I hope that’s true, Fleet Captain.”
“So, my leg? When will I be able to leave here?”
“You may as well relax, Fleet Captain, and have some tea. The new prosthetic will be ready in another hour. And yes, we are making it a bit stronger than your first one.”
“Oh, thank you.”
“Just saving ourselves some work down the line,” said the doctor.
A few minutes after the doctor left, Seivarden came in, my old enamel tea flask tucked under one arm, the two bowls stacked in her hand. She hoisted herself onto the bed, sitting where my leg ought to have been. Handed me a bowl, filled it from the flask, and filled her own. “Ship is… a bit miffed with you,” she said, after taking a sip of her tea. “Why didn’t you tell it what you were planning? It thought you were really planning to surrender yourself. It was very unhappy at the prospect.”
“I would have told you if I’d known, Ship.” I took a drink of my own tea. Didn’t ask where the fish had gone—Nine would have seen to its welfare. “When I got on the shuttle, my only plan was just what I’d told you it was—to play for time, on the off chance Lieutenant Tisarwat came up with something”—saw Seivarden’s frown, gestured my unwillingness to speak more on that topic—“or that Fleet Captain Uemi might have brought the Hrad fleet here instead of having gone to Tstur.” Or that, with enough time to think about what it was Anaander was doing, Sword of Atagaris and Sword of Gurat might balk. “The question of the treaty didn’t even occur to me until the shuttle was almost docked. How else do you think the Republic of Two Systems happened? I didn’t have time to come up with anything better.”
“Honestly, Breq. That wasn’t one of your best ideas. Do you know how many republics the Radch has ground to nothing?”
“Who are you talking to?” I asked. “Of course I do. I also know how many monarchies, autarchies, theocracies, stratocracies, and various other -archies and -ocracies the Radch has ground to nothing. And besides, those were all human govern
ments and not one of them was protected by the treaty with the Presger.”
“We aren’t, either,” Seivarden pointed out. “And there’s no guarantee we will be.”
“True,” I agreed. “But determining our treaty status will take a few years at the least—likely longer. And in the meantime it’s just much safer for everyone else to leave us alone. We’ll have some time to work out the details. And it’s only a provisional republic. We can adjust things if we like.”
“Varden be praised,” said Sphene, coming in the door. “I’d hate to be stuck with the first thing that came out of your mouth under pressure. Though I suppose we should be grateful it wasn’t the Republic of a Thousand Eggs.”
“Actually,” I said, “that has a certain poetry to it.”
“Don’t start, Cousin,” said Sphene. “I still haven’t entirely forgiven you for that. Which I suppose is only fair, because I’m here to make an apology myself.”
“Something’s just come out of the Ghost Gate,” said Seivarden and Station at nearly the same moment. Seivarden, obviously, speaking for Mercy of Kalr.
“That would be me,” said Sphene. “I was already halfway through the intersystem gate when you arrived in the Ghost System. I did advise you to play for time, you may recall. I just wasn’t entirely truthful about how much time would be involved.”
“And,” said Seivarden, frowning, alarm in her voice, “Fleet Captain Uemi has arrived in the system. With three Swords and two Justices. And also”—a bit of relief—“an offer of assistance.”
“Tell Fleet Captain Uemi,” I said, “that we appreciate her offer but are in no need of assistance. And let her know that while we understand her intentions are good, the next ships that gate into our territory without warning or invitation will be fired on. Oh, and let our cousins know about the republic.”
“Provisional republic,” corrected Sphene.
“The provisional republic,” I amended. “They can be citizens or not, as they wish, but I imagine their status under the treaty—pending the outcome of the conclave—remains unaffected. And let Uemi know that those ships are of course free to associate with her if they wish, but if she should force them in any way, there will be potential problems with the treaty.”
“Done,” said Seivarden. “Though if I were in your place I’d also have advised her to get her ass in gear a little quicker next time.”
“It’s called diplomacy, Lieutenant,” I said.
19
Entertainments nearly always end with triumph or disaster—happiness achieved, or total, tragic defeat precluding any hope of it. But there is always more after the ending—always the next morning and the next, always changes, losses and gains. Always one step after the other. Until the one true ending that none of us can escape. But even that ending is only a small one, large as it looms for us. There is still the next morning for everyone else. For the vast majority of the rest of the universe, that ending might as well not ever have happened. Every ending is an arbitrary one. Every ending is, from another angle, not really an ending.
Tisarwat and I took the shuttle back to Mercy of Kalr, with Translator Zeiat, the suspension pod containing Translator Dlique’s body, and a crate of fish sauce nearly as large as the pod. I could not imagine all of it fitting into Translator Zeiat’s tiny courier ship, not with the translator in it, too. But the translator just shoved it all through the airlock with no apparent difficulty and then turned to say her goodbyes. “This really has been interesting, Fleet Captain, far more interesting than I’d expected.”
“What had you expected, Translator?” I asked.
“Well, you recall, I expected to be Dlique! I’m so glad I’m not. And even when I realized I was actually Zeiat, well, you know, Fleet Captain, even Zeiat isn’t really anybody. Meeting with a new Significant species, calling a conclave—that’s the sort of thing they usually send somebody to do, and here I am, just Zeiat.”
“So might you become somebody when you return with the news, then?”
“Goodness, no, Fleet Captain. That’s not the way it works. But it’s kind of you to think so. No, somebody will come, sometime soon, to talk to you about the conclave.”
“And the medical correctives?” I reminded her. I had no confidence that any of the remaining bits of Radch space would deal with us anytime soon.
“Yes, yes, someone will be along about those, too. Quite soon, I’m sure. But really, you know, Fleet Captain, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to use quite so many of them as you do.”
“I plan to cut back,” I told her.
“Good, good. Always remember, Fleet Captain—internal organs belong inside your body. And blood belongs inside your veins.” And she went through the airlock and was off.
Medic restored my connection with Mercy of Kalr. Such a relief, to find Kalr Five in my quarters, when I reached, grumbling to Twelve. “I did tell her I ought to pack something for her, but no, she knew better and all she took was that horrible old tea set. And now it’s Pack me some clothes, if you please, I’ve been wearing the same shirt for three days. Well she’d have had clean shirts if she’d listened to me.” Twelve said nothing, only made a sympathetic noise. “And now it’s back to the station for important meetings. And you know she’d have nothing decent to serve her tea in if I didn’t see to it!”
Tisarwat, in Medic’s tiny office. Tired. Feelings a muddle, but mostly Tisarwat on a good day. A little buzz of tension, but she was relieved to be back on Mercy of Kalr.
“What Sword of Gurat’s medic was giving you,” Medic was saying, “was similar in some ways to what I’ve been giving you, but not the same. How did things feel? Different? The same? Better? Not?”
“Mostly the same?” Tisarwat ventured. “I think something was off? A little better some ways, not as good other ways. I don’t know. Everything’s… everything’s strange right now.”
“Well,” said Medic, “Sword of Gurat sent us your data. I’ll take a closer look at it and we’ll see where we go from there. Meanwhile, you should get some rest.”
“How can I possibly? There’s an entire government to be set up. I have to get back to the station. I have to get into some of those meetings the fleet captain is holding. I have to…”
“Rest, Lieutenant. These are meetings you’re talking about—nothing’s going to actually get done for weeks. If then. They’ll probably spend the first month just setting an agenda.”
“The agenda is important!” Tisarwat insisted. I would have to keep a tight rein on her—I wanted her experience, and her talent for politics, but I didn’t want Anaander Mianaai—the tendencies Tisarwat had gotten from Anaander Mianaai, surely part of her desperate urge to be in those meetings—to have any sort of significant influence over what we were trying to build here. And besides, if she was left unchecked we were liable to end up with an Autarchy of Two Systems, ruled by Lieutenant Tisarwat. “The fleet captain’s traveled a lot outside the Radch and she has some odd ideas. If nobody stops her we’re likely to end up with system official appointments determined by the results of a ball game! Or chosen by lot! Or popular elections!”
“Be serious, Lieutenant,” Medic insisted. “Agendas can always be changed or added to, and besides it’ll be months before there’s even a hint of anything actually happening. You won’t miss much if you take a few days of rest. Stand your watches. Let your Bos take care of you. They want to very badly, particularly Three. And in fact, Ekalu could really use some leave. Seivarden is still on the station, and Fleet Captain’s going back in a few hours. It would be good if Ekalu could go with her, but someone has to look after the ship.”
It wasn’t only Anaander who had had a hand in making Tisarwat. I saw the tiny stab of excitement at the prospect of being in actual command of the ship, even if only for a few days, even if it wasn’t going anywhere and nothing was happening. “Fleet Captain said I could change my eyes if I came back.” As though it followed logically from what Medic had just said.
“All rig
ht.” I could see that Medic was both surprised and not surprised. Glad to hear it, and not. “Do you have a color in mind?”
“Brown. Just brown.”
“Lieutenant, do you know how many shades of brown there are? How many kinds of brown eyes?” No reply. “Think about it for a while. There’s no rush. And besides, I kind of like your eyes the way they are. I think a lot of us do.”
“I don’t think Fleet Captain does,” said Tisarwat.
“I think you’re mistaken,” Medic replied. “But it hardly matters if she does or not. They’re not Fleet Captain’s eyes.”
“Medic.” Tisarwat, anguished. “She called me darling child.”
“Yes, of course she did,” said Medic, rising from her seat. “Why don’t you go get your breakfast, and then go stand your watch, and we’ll talk about eyes this evening.”
The next day I was back on the station. In a meeting. In a clean shirt (Kalr Five still complaining about it, to Ten this time), that priceless white porcelain tea set on the table (Kalr Five complaining to Ten about that as well, radiating satisfaction the while). Sphene to my right, Kalr Three to my left, representing Mercy of Kalr. Sword of Atagaris and Sword of Gurat across from me, along with Station Administrator Celar for Station. “For the most part,” I was saying, “to begin with, it will be much easier to leave most of the existing institutions in place, and make changes as we go. I have some misgivings about the magistracies, though, and the way evaluations and sentences are handed out. Currently the entire system is based on the assumption that every citizen can appeal to the Lord of Mianaai, who can be depended on to dispense perfect justice.”
“Well, that certainly won’t work,” said Sword of Atagaris.
“If it ever did,” I agreed. “I think it’s an important place to start.”
“Clearly, Cousin,” said Sphene, “it’s something that interests you. By all means, enjoy your hobby. But all these questions—who gets to be a citizen, who gets to be in charge, who makes what decisions, how everyone gets fed—don’t matter to me, so long as it all works and I get the things I need. Do whatever you like to the magistrates, shoot them into the sun for all I care. Just don’t bore me with it now. What I want to talk about is ancillaries.”