Ancillary Mercy

by Ann Leckie

  “What?” Seivarden was, apparently, beyond even swearing.

  “Sword of Gurat came out of its gate and hit the passenger shuttle. Knocked it into the dome over the Gardens, and that broke the patch over the hole you cut, to pull us out, that day. The repairs to the lake bed weren’t finished, and level one of the Undergarden depressurized, too. Fortunately enough, the people working in the Gardens at the time were able to get clear, and of course the Undergarden had been evacuated days ago. But the shuttle… well, it’s not been on the news, of course, so I mostly only hear rumors, but I know for a fact that there are at least two very prominent families in mourning right now. And one of those for a grandmother, a mother, and a daughter.”

  “Varden’s suppurating cuticles,” said Seivarden.

  “Lieutenant, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say that outside a historical drama.”

  “They say that in historical dramas?” Seivarden seemed nearly as shocked by that as by the shuttle disaster Basnaaid had just told her about.

  “It makes you sound like the dashing hero of an entertainment.”

  “The heroes say that in historical dramas? What is the world coming to?”

  Basnaaid opened her mouth to say something, but apparently found herself at a loss. Closed her mouth again.

  “Well,” said Seivarden, and then, “Well. No wonder the tyrant was so frightened and angry. There’s already some doubt about loyalties, about who supports who, who the Lord of Mianaai can trust or who the fleet captain may have suborned. Then the ship bringing Mianaai ravages the famous Gardens yet again, in the process killing who knows how many shuttle passengers, among them members of the system’s wealthy and prominent families. And then she finds the less elevated citizens already protesting on the concourse. So very gently, so very properly, but still.”

  “Nobody wanted to talk to her about the Gardens. Or the Undergarden,” Basnaaid agreed. “That would be my guess, anyway. At any rate, she fairly obviously wasn’t in a patient or forgiving mood when she arrived.”

  Silence, probably both of them remembering watching the new head of Security die. “So what now?” asked Seivarden.

  Basnaaid gestured her helplessness to answer such a question. “I think everyone is wondering that. For the immediate future, though, I need to go to work, and you need to talk to someone in Station Administration.”

  “I do,” agreed Seivarden. “I suppose that’s what now. The next step, and then the next one.”

  They rose, and left the shop. Two steps into the corridor, a citizen in the light blue of Station Administration accosted them, fairly clearly had been waiting for them to come out. “Lieutenant Seivarden.” She bowed. “Station Administrator Celar begs the favor of your attendance. She would have come herself, but she is unable to leave her office just now.”

  Seivarden looked at Basnaaid. Basnaaid smiled. “Well, thank you for having lunch with me, Lieutenant. I’ll talk to you again soon.”

  “Of course we’ll reassign you,” Station Administrator Celar said, when both she and Seivarden were seated in her office. Half the size of the system governor’s office, without the window, which Seivarden seemed to find oddly reassuring. “Medical sent an order yesterday morning, in fact. I apologize for any inconvenience. And of course, I apologize for the nature of the assignment. It was, perhaps, not entirely appropriate to begin with.”

  “No apology necessary, Administrator.” Seivarden, smooth and pleasant. Dismayed, probably to think what might have been in that order from Medical. Her dismay moderated by Station Administrator Celar’s massive, statuesque beauty. Hardly surprising, even if wide and heavy wasn’t Seivarden’s usual type. Station Administrator Celar had that effect on nearly everyone. “Life in the military isn’t all dinner parties and drinking tea. Or it wasn’t in my day.” Station Administrator Celar gestured recognition of Seivarden’s history. “I’m quite used to pitching in with repair jobs. The work in the Undergarden is urgently needed. And in fact, there are good reasons why you might not want to appear too… solicitous of my welfare, just now. No, I’m grateful for your assistance. And for Station’s.”

  “Well, as it happens, Lieutenant, we might have need of you elsewhere. You noticed Eminence Ifian on the concourse, when you came in?”

  “I couldn’t help it,” replied Seivarden, with a sardonic smile. “She’s renewed her work stoppage.”

  “Not all of the priests of Amaat have joined her this time. But there’s still a backlog of funerals and births and contract registrations. There’s likely to be a line over it very soon, I think. I’ve been… that is, Station and I have been discussing it, and we’ve asked some of the other priesthoods to assist. Of course, Station Administration and Athoek Station itself can handle the basic record-keeping—we’ve already shifted assignments for that, and those citizens are reviewing their new duties. But citizens have been so used to going to the temple of Amaat for all of those things, and now there are potentially quite a few choices and no clear guide to what’s most proper, there’s bound to be some… some confusion about how to proceed or who to consult. We’re planning to set up an office of advisers, where citizens who are in doubt can go and be directed to the most suitable option.”

  “Station Administrator, all respect, and the idea is a good one, but I myself don’t know any of the people here, let alone the details of the various local priesthoods or their practices.”

  Station Administrator Celar gave a small quirk of a smile. “I suspect, Lieutenant, that you would settle in quickly. But it’s only an idea, something to consider. In the meantime, I wanted to ask.”

  “Of course, Administrator.” With her most charming smile.

  “It’s true the fleet captain is an ancillary? She is, in fact, Justice of Toren.”

  “She is,” Seivarden said.

  “I suppose that explains some things. The songs—I’m embarrassed to have told her, unknowing, that I wished I had met Justice of Toren.”

  “I assure you, Administrator, she was pleased to discover your shared interest. Just, things being as they were, she couldn’t say anything about who she was.”

  “I imagine not.” Station Administrator Celar sighed. “Lieutenant, every time I talked to Fleet Captain Breq I got the distinct impression that her agenda was very much her own, despite her having orders from the Lord of the Radch. From some part of the Lord of the Radch. And yet, until now I would have thought it impossible that any ship”—another sigh—“or any station would have anything like its own agenda.”

  “And yet,” agreed Seivarden. “I assure you, the fleet captain’s agenda is no one’s but her own. And her priorities are very similar to Station’s—she cares very little for the plans of any of the Lord of the Radch and very much for the safety of the residents of this system.”

  “Lieutenant, someone—I have my guesses as to who, but of course I don’t know for certain—has jammed the doors shut to Station’s Central Access. And disabled all of my accesses, and all of System Governor Giarod’s. At least the ones any of us could use outside Central.”

  “This is news to me, Administrator,” said Seivarden. “But it does explain some recent events, doesn’t it.”

  “It does. And now Station would appear to have its own agenda, and its own priorities. The Lord of the Radch—one of her, at any rate—is trapped in the governor’s residence, and Station tells me it no longer recognizes either her authority or System Governor Giarod’s. Which… honestly, Lieutenant, I’m not sure I know what’s true anymore, or what to expect from one moment to the next. I keep thinking none of this can be real, but it keeps happening.”

  “I hate that feeling.” Sincerely. Seivarden knew what that felt like. “I’m confident, though, that Station has the well-being of its residents at heart. And I can tell you absolutely that Fleet Captain Breq supports Station in that.”

  “Are you saying explicitly, Lieutenant, that she does not support the Lord of the Radch?”

  “Not any of her
,” said Seivarden. “It was the Lord of the Radch who destroyed Justice of Toren. The one that’s here, in the governor’s residence. Or I think so. It’s difficult to tell which one is which sometimes.” She didn’t add her suspicion that there might yet be a third Anaander. Seeing Station Administrator Celar’s astonishment and disbelief, Seivarden added, “It’s a long and complicated story.”

  “And is the fleet captain nearby? This moment of… of relative peace is likely to be short-lived. The Lord of the Radch is only held in check by the threat of losing her presence in the system entirely—the moment she is not the only Anaander here, she will be free to act. And it is only the current position of the Lord of the Radch that holds Sword of Gurat and Sword of Atagaris in check. The instant that changes, what little stability or safety we’ve attained will be gone again. And of course, Eminence Ifian appears to be doing what she can to make our lives more complicated, even as things are.”

  “I don’t know where the fleet captain is.” Suddenly, for just an instant, Seivarden was desperately afraid. “She didn’t tell me her plans, in case…” She gestured the obvious conclusion to that sentence. “Honestly, Administrator, I’m not sure what Mercy of Kalr can do against two Swords—and do I understand there’s a third Sword on the edges of the system? That fortunately can’t gate?”

  Station Administrator Celar gestured confirmation. “And Mercy of Ilves, which has been inspecting the outstations but is apparently having some sort of communications difficulty.”

  “What an inconvenient moment for such a thing,” Seivarden observed dryly. “If I were in Anaander’s position, I would first find some way to escape confinement in the governor’s residence. You’re not letting anyone in there with her?”

  “Only Sword of Atagaris.”

  “You’re watching what it brings in to her?”

  “Station is.”

  “Good. Still, if she does manage to escape, I predict she’ll threaten the station with one of those Swords, and send the other to bring that third one closer in—it can’t gate, and it’s weeks away otherwise. I have to say, I’m surprised she hasn’t already done that.”

  “You’re not alone in that, Lieutenant. There has been a great deal of speculation about it. Sword of Gurat was perhaps more badly damaged in its collision with the shuttle than it let on to us.”

  Seivarden gestured the possibility of this. “And I suspect she doesn’t trust Sword of Atagaris. The fleet captain tried to return its officers to it, did you know? But apparently Anaander intercepted them, and they’re still in suspension, aboard Sword of Gurat. As a hold over Sword of Atagaris.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Station Administrator Celar frowned. “There are some friends of Hetnys’s on the station who would be quite unhappy to hear it.”

  “No doubt,” said Seivarden, blandly. “Whatever the reason she hasn’t tried to tow that third Sword in, if Anaander doesn’t manage to escape, the longer she sits there the more likely she is to decide to sacrifice herself. I think Station was right, that doing so effectively surrenders the system to Breq. But I also think that, knowing that, and knowing she’s just one small fraction of herself, she might well decide her best choice is to leave the system in such a state that it is effectively worthless to whoever wins it.”

  Station Administrator Celar was silent a moment. “And you don’t know where the fleet captain is, or what she’s planning?”

  “No. But I don’t think things are going to stay like this for very long.”

  Station spoke, then, from the office console. “Truer than you know, Lieutenant. Sword of Atagaris has just fired on the station. Nine hours to impact. It will strike the Gardens. I’ve just ordered the Undergarden work crews to evacuate and seal the area off as well as they can. Your confirmation will be appreciated, Station Administrator.”

  “Granted, of course,” Celar replied, rising from her seat.

  Seivarden said, “You’ve killed the Mianaai in the governor’s residence, of course, Station.”

  “I’m trying to, Lieutenant,” said Station, from the console. “But she seems to have managed to put some holes in the section door over the concourse window. I’m not certain how.” Section doors, on ships or on stations, were made to be extremely difficult to breach, for fairly obvious reasons. “Not much, but enough to suck in air from the concourse when I try to pull it out of the room. Would this be the fleet captain’s invisible gun, that she used in the Gardens?”

  “Oh, fuck,” said Seivarden, and rose, herself. “How many holes?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “She’s got six shots left, then,” said Seivarden.

  “And,” said Station, “Anaander Mianaai demands I stop trying to suffocate her, or Sword of Atagaris will fire again.”

  “I don’t see there’s much choice, Station,” said Station Administrator Celar. Seivarden gestured agreement. Helpless and angry—largely with herself—but refusing to show it.

  “She also wishes to meet with whoever it is who’s in charge here. In, she says, her office. In ten minutes. Or…”

  “Sword of Atagaris will fire again. Yes,” acknowledged Seivarden. “I suppose whoever it is who’s in charge here means you, Station.”

  “The Lord of Mianaai doesn’t think so,” said Station. Impossible that there was the least trace of complaint or petulance in its tone. “Or she’d have asked to talk to me directly. Besides, it’s Station Administrator Celar who is the authority here.”

  Station Administrator Celar looked at Seivarden. Her face expressionless, but doubtless she was remembering the death of the head of Security. Seivarden said nothing. Finally Celar said, “I don’t see there’s much choice here, either. Lieutenant, will you come with me?”

  “If you like, Administrator. Though you do realize, I’m sure, that my presence will… give a certain appearance of official association.”

  “Do you think the fleet captain would object to that?”

  “No,” said Seivarden. “She wouldn’t.”

  On the concourse, the line that Station Administrator Celar had anticipated had already begun to form. Eminence Ifian and her subordinate priests—fewer than half of the number of the previous work stoppage—watched the incipient line with complacence. As Station Administrator Celar and Seivarden walked past the temple entrance, Ifian rose from where she’d been sitting on her cushion. “Station Administrator, I demand to know the truth. You owe the truth to the residents of this station and instead you’re disseminating lies in order to manipulate us.”

  Station Administrator Celar stopped, Seivarden with her. “What lies would these be, Eminence?”

  “The Lord of the Radch would never fire on this station. As you well know. I am appalled that you would go so far in your rejection of legitimate authority, indeed, your flagrant disregard for the well-being of this station’s residents.”

  Seivarden looked at the eminence. Her lip curled, the very image of aristocratic hauteur, and she said to Station Administrator Celar, “Administrator, I wouldn’t dignify this person with a reply.” And without waiting, either for Ifian to answer or Celar to move, turned away from the temple and walked toward the governor’s residence. Celar said nothing, but turned when Seivarden did.

  Anaander Mianaai stood behind the system governor’s desk, flanked by two Sword of Atagaris ancillaries. “Well,” she said, on seeing Station Administrator Celar enter, followed by Seivarden, “I ask for whoever’s in charge and I get this. Very interesting.”

  “You wouldn’t accept that Station was in charge,” replied Celar. “We weren’t sure who you would accept, so we thought we’d provide a variety for you to choose from.”

  “I’m not certain what sort of a fool you take me for,” said Anaander, smoothly, in apparent good humor. “And, Citizen Seivarden, I remain astonished at your involvement here. I wouldn’t have thought you would ever be a traitor to the Radch.”

  “I might say the same of you,” said Seivarden. “Except events have been so conv
incing.”

  “It’s you, isn’t it? Controlling Justice of Toren, and Mercy of Kalr. And Athoek Station, now. The very young—and, I must say, not entirely steady—Lieutenant Tisarwat was quite definite about there being no instances of me aboard Mercy of Kalr.”

  Mention of Tisarwat hit Seivarden like a slap. She did not manage to keep her astonished dismay off her face. “Tisarwat!” Realized there was some deception afoot, but that she could only guess at its outlines. “That fish-witted little double-crosser!”

  Anaander Mianaai laughed outright. “Her horror of you is second only to her terror of the ancillary. Who is nominally in command, of course, but…” She gestured the impossibility of that. “I will say, Lieutenant Tisarwat was surely more of a nuisance to you than anything. She must have had something resembling wits, at some point, to be assigned to an administrative post, but the gods only know if she’ll ever recover them.”

  “Well,” Seivarden said, with a nonchalance she did not feel, “you’re welcome to her, for whatever good you can get out of her.”

  “Fair enough,” said Anaander. “So, since I know for a fact that I would never under any circumstances give an ancillary the sort of access codes that are clearly involved here, I must assume that it’s you in control of Station. I will, therefore, deal with you.”

  “If you insist,” said Seivarden. “I am, however, only Station’s representative.”

  Anaander gave her a disbelieving look. “Here is how it will be. I am once again taking control of this station. Any threat to me, and Sword of Atagaris fires on the station again. Its first shot—the one that will hit some eight hours from now—is merely an assurance of my intentions, and will mostly only damage uninhabited areas. Subsequent ones will not be so cautious. I am, I find, perfectly happy to sacrifice this instance of myself if it will deny my enemy a foothold. I will have control of the official news channels, through System Governor Giarod. There will be no further unexpected appearances on the news. Sword of Gurat will return to running Station Security. It will also continue to cut into Station’s Central Access. Any attempt to stop this, and Sword of Atagaris will fire on the station again.”