Ancillary Mercy

by Ann Leckie

  “Oh, will you?”

  “I will.”

  “And will you also have Lieutenant Tisarwat?”

  “Amaat’s grace, no.” My voice even. Not quite ancillary-flat. “I wish you joy of her. You might actually get some work out of her if she stops weeping for a few moments.”

  “She is, I am told, emotionally traumatized and needs medication on account of it. And more therapy than a ship’s medic can provide. People like that don’t get assigned to military, not even administrative posts. I can’t help but conclude that it’s service with you that’s done for her.”

  “Quite possibly,” I acknowledged. “But as I said, I’ll have Lieutenant Seivarden and her soldiers back. And.”

  “And?”

  “And you will cease your attempts to murder Athoek Station.”

  “Murder!” A pause. “Athoek Station is mine to do what I want with. And it is currently not functioning properly.”

  “Neither of those statements is true. But I won’t argue with you.” I took a drink of tea from that elegant porcelain. “Return Lieutenant Seivarden and her Amaats, and give up your plan to replace Athoek Station with a fresh AI core, and I will surrender to you. Just me. I have no intention of putting Mercy of Kalr in your power.”

  Thirty seconds of silence. Then, “What’s the catch?”

  “None. Unless by catch you mean the same conditions you agreed to with Athoek Station: the terms of the exchange are to be announced on the official news channels. So that—how did Lieutenant Seivarden put it? So that when you have removed Station as an obstacle to treating its residents however you like, and the shooting starts, they’ll know you for a treacherous shit, and so will everyone else in Radch space. Oh, and I also expect you to honor the terms of your agreement with Station itself.” Silence. “Don’t sulk. Athoek Station has already said it’s happy to deal with you so long as you don’t threaten its residents. That may have changed now it knows you’re trying to kill it, but that’s really no one’s fault but your own. I’m sure if you can bring yourself to treat Athoek Station’s residents decently, you’ll still be left with a usable base in this system, with a habitable planet and all its resources potentially available to you. And you still have me, of course.”

  “Where did that gun come from?”

  I smiled, and took another drink of tea.

  “Who are you, really?”

  “Justice of Toren One Esk Nineteen,” I said. “Who else would I be?”

  “I don’t think I believe you.”

  I handed the empty bowl of tea to a Kalr. “Order Sword of Gurat to leave off breaking into Athoek Station’s Central Access, announce our agreement, and I’ll come to the station. You’re welcome to wring whatever information out of me you can.”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  I gestured unconcern. “All right. Goodbye.” The connection cut out.

  “They know where we are by now,” said Kalr Thirteen, from her station behind me.

  “They do,” I agreed. “And they might be foolish enough to try to attack us. But I don’t think they will. Mercy of Ilves is still an unknown quantity, and if Sword of Atagaris moves to attack us, they’ll leave Sword of Gurat vulnerable. It’s still docked with the station.” Though Tisarwat was, so far as I knew, still aboard Sword of Gurat. “And I’m beginning to suspect it’s more badly damaged than they’re letting on.” It might have come into the system already damaged from fighting at Tstur Palace, and the collision with the passenger shuttle would have made things worse. “The tyrant is angry and suspicious right now, but she’ll see soon enough that this exchange is to her advantage.” And Athoek Station would be safe. I hoped.

  An hour later the tyrant messaged back. She would make the announcement. Sword of Gurat would leave the corridors surrounding Central Access, and Athoek Station would confirm for me that it was safe and unmolested. Seivarden and her Amaats would meet me at the dock, and board the shuttle I’d arrived on. I would arrive unarmed and alone.

  I went to Medical. Medic could not bring herself to speak to me for an entire minute. I sat on the side of a bed and waited. Finally she said, “Still singing, even now?” Angry and frustrated.

  “I’ll stop if you like.”

  “No,” she said, with an exasperated sigh. “That would be even worse. I know you think it’s unlikely they’ll make you an ancillary of Sword of Gurat. And I do understand why you think that. But if you’re wrong, they won’t hesitate to do it. You’re not a person to them.”

  “There’s one more reason that I think they won’t do that, that I didn’t mention in Command. If Seivarden doesn’t have Station’s accesses, and Tisarwat doesn’t…”

  “That’s another thing,” Medic put in.

  “And if, as she apparently believes, Tisarwat doesn’t have them,” I continued, “then who does? Possibly I do. I imagine she has begun to suspect that I am not myself, that I have in fact been appropriated by Omaugh Anaander. Perhaps she would prefer Sword of Gurat not have so much of her enemy self in such an intimate part of its memory.”

  “And as soon as they get what they want from you, sir, Lieutenant Tisarwat is done for.” More than Tisarwat might be done for—Tisarwat’s knowledge might well give Tstur Anaander an advantage should she move against Omaugh. If Omaugh Anaander had not already taken Tstur Palace.

  It was all a gamble. All a toss of the omens, never knowing where the pieces would come down. “Yes,” I agreed. “But she’s also done for if she fails to do what she went aboard Sword of Gurat to do. And the more time we can give her to do that, the better for all of us.”

  “Ship is very unhappy about this.”

  “But Ship understands why I am doing it. So do you. And you can be unhappy about it just as effectively after we’re done. So. Put me back the way you found me, when I first came aboard this ship.”

  There was no need to remove the implants in question, just disable them. It took Medic an hour to begin the process, and the rest would work itself out over the next day or so. “Well,” she said, when she was finished, frowning fiercely. And could not speak further.

  “I’ve survived worse odds,” I told her.

  “Someday you won’t,” she said.

  “That is true of all of us,” I said. “I will come back if I can. If I can’t, well…” I gestured, the tossing of a handful of omens.

  I saw—for the moment I could still see—that once again she could not speak. That she didn’t want me to see her, just now. I slid off the bed, and knowing she would not welcome more I put my hand on her shoulder, for just a moment, and then left her to herself.

  Kalr Five was in my quarters. Packing, as though I were only leaving for a few days’ visit to the station. “Begging your indulgence, sir,” she said when I came in, “alone doesn’t mean without a servant. You can’t go to the station without someone to look after your uniform. Or carry your luggage. The Lord of Mianaai can’t possibly expect it.”

  “Five,” I said, and then, “Ettan.” Her name, that I had only ever used once before, and that to her private horror. “I need you to stay here. I need you to stay here and be all right.”

  “I don’t see how I can, sir.”

  “And there’s no point in my taking any luggage.” She stared at me, not comprehending. Or perhaps refusing to comprehend. No, Ship showed me, she was trying very hard not to cry. “Here,” I said, “give me the Itran icon. Not the one in the corner.” She Who Sprang from the Lily sat in a niche in the corner of my quarters, with an EskVar and icons of Amaat and Toren. “The one in my luggage.”

  “Yes, sir.” She Who Sprang from the Lily, knife in one hand, jeweled human skull in the other, was an endless source of disgusted fascination among my Kalrs. I had never opened the other Itran icon in their presence, but they knew, of course, that I had it. Five opened the bench it was stored in and drew it out, a golden disk five centimeters in diameter and one and a half centimeters high. I took it from her and triggered it, and it opened out, th
e image rising from the center. The figure wore only short trousers and a wreath of tiny jeweled flowers. One of its four arms held a severed head that smiled serenely and dripped jeweled blood on the figure’s bare feet. Two more hands held a knife, and a ball. The fourth hand was empty, the forearm encased in a cylindrical armguard.

  “Sir!” Five’s astonishment nearly showed on her face. “That’s you.”

  “This is an icon of the Itran saint Seven Brilliant Truths Shine like Suns. The head, do you see?” Seven Brilliant Truths’s head was clearly the center of the composition, and no one in the Itran Tetrarchy would have been in any doubt as to who the actual subject of the icon was. But outside the Tetrarchy, eyes were invariably drawn to the standing figure. No one outside the Tetrarchy had seen it who had not also seen me. “This would be extremely valuable in the Itran Tetrarchy. There weren’t many of these made, and this one has a piece of the saint’s skin in the base. Will you keep it safe for me?” I didn’t have many sentimental possessions, but this would count among them. So would the memorial pin from Lieutenant Awn’s funeral, but that I would not be parted from.

  “Sir,” said Five, “the necklace that you gave Citizen Uran. And that… that box of teeth you gave to Horticulturist Basnaaid.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “They are the originals of what you see in miniature here.” I had not liked Seven Brilliant Truths Shine like Suns. She had been so very sure of her own importance, her own superiority. Had had little compassion for anyone beyond herself. But the moment had come when she had been asked to sacrifice herself for what she believed, and though she had been offered escape she hadn’t taken it. Of everyone present, she had thought that I would best understand her choice. Correctly, as it happened, though not for the reasons she assumed. I touched the catch again, and the icon closed in on itself. “I need you to keep this safe for me.” She took it, reluctant. “Besides, no one else will take sufficient care of the porcelain. I’ll take my old enamel set with me, I know you’ll be glad to see it go.”

  She actually frowned, and then turned and walked swiftly out of the room without apology or explanation. I did not need to ask Ship why.

  Sphene was in the corridor outside. It gave Five an incurious look as she rushed by, and then it said to me, “Cousin! Take me with you! The last time you did something this amazingly stupid, it turned out spectacularly. I want in this time. Or at least give me a chance to spit in the Usurper’s face. Just once! I’ll beg, if you like.”

  “I’m supposed to go alone, Cousin.”

  “And so you will. I don’t count, do I? I’m just an it.”

  A voice, from farther down the corridor. “What’s this I hear?” Translator Zeiat came into the doorway. “You’re going to the station, Fleet Captain? Excellent! I’ll come along.”

  “Translator,” I said, still standing in the middle of my quarters, hand still partly outstretched from giving Seven Brilliant Truths Shine like Suns to Kalr Five, “we’re in the middle of a war. Things are very unsettled on the station right now.”

  “Oh!” Comprehension, recognition showed on her face. “That’s right, you said there was a war. A very inconvenient one, as I recall. But, you know, you’re all out of fish sauce. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen a war before!”

  “I’m going, too,” said Sphene.

  “Excellent!” replied Translator Zeiat. “I’ll go pack.”

  The moment my shuttle departed, Lieutenant Ekalu messaged the station. “This is Lieutenant Ekalu, currently in command of Mercy of Kalr. The fleet captain is on her way. Be advised, in three minutes we will begin removal of the missile currently headed for Athoek Station, and will then return to this orbit. A hostile response to our action will be taken badly.” And gated without waiting for a reply. Mercy of Kalr would emerge in the path of the missile, open the gate wide so it would exit the universe, expel it somewhere it could spend itself harmlessly.

  I was glad for Ship’s absence; Medic’s actions, an hour ago, were beginning to take effect, a piecemeal slipping away of connections and sensations I had become far too accustomed to over the last several weeks, that even when I had been cut off from Ship temporarily I’d known (thought, hoped) would always return sooner or later.

  Sphene pulled itself into the seat beside me, where I sat in the pilot’s seat. Strapped itself in. “I like your style, Cousin. I really wish we could have met sooner. I’d have introduced myself when you arrived, if I’d only known. So. What’s your plan this time?”

  “My plan,” I said, ancillary-flat, “is to prevent the murder of Athoek Station.”

  “What, that’s all?”

  “That’s all, Cousin.”

  “Hmm. Well. It’s not very promising. But then, your last plan wasn’t very promising, either. I will say, if nothing else, the Usurper’s reaction to Translator Zeiat should be amusing.” The translator was strapped into her own seat, two rows aft. “Do I understand correctly, that no one seems to have mentioned her to the Usurper yet?”

  “That would appear to be the case.”

  “Hah,” replied Sphene, obviously pleased. “This will be good, then.”

  “Perhaps it won’t be,” I said. “This part of the Usurper appears to think that the Presger are the reason for her split. This Anaander might take the translator’s presence as confirmation of that.”

  “Better and better! And besides, she might well be right. No”—guessing I had been about to argue—“not that the Presger are attempting to destroy her or her empire she’s built. That’s nothing but her own typical arrogance. Why would they care? But meeting the Presger. Realizing that not only could she not defeat or destroy them, but that they could destroy her with hardly a thought. When you’ve spent two thousand years thinking of yourself as the most gloriously powerful being in the universe, I imagine an encounter like that comes as quite an unpleasant shock. Really, after something like that you need to redefine who you are.”

  And the Presger involvement in the destruction of Garsedd—those twenty-five unstoppable guns, Anaander’s own towering rage at being confronted with even the hint of possible defeat—might have brought that to a crisis. “You may be right, Cousin. That still leaves us in an awkward situation.”

  “It does,” Sphene agreed. “Very awkward. It should be tremendously entertaining. If you don’t contrive to wrest some kind of advantage out of it, you’re not the ship I took you for.”

  “I’m not a ship anymore,” I pointed out.

  “And what about Lieutenant Tisarwat? Off at the same time as Lieutenant Seivarden, only her mission was so very secret. And now it seems she’s aboard Sword of Gurat, and she’s, what did the Usurper say? Not the sharpest knife in the set? Can this be the same Lieutenant Tisarwat? Oh, she looks innocent enough with those foolish purple eyes, but she’s a politically conniving piece of work. Maybe not the steadiest, but she’s only, what, seventeen? I fear for her opponents in the future, when she grows into herself. If she lives that long.”

  “So do I,” I said. Quite truthfully.

  “No more to say about it? Well, Cousin, I don’t take offense. You’ve left them weeping as though you were already dead, back on Mercy of Kalr, but I think you’ve still got a few counters on the board.” I said nothing. “Please let me be one of them, Cousin. I was entirely serious when I said I would beg.”

  “Would you give up ancillaries? Not the ones already connected. I mean, for the future.”

  Silence. No expression on Sphene’s face, of course, there never was unless it wanted there to be. “I do understand why you’re asking that. Truly. It is impossible that I could be under any illusions as to what ancillaries are.”

  “Of course not.” It would be entirely foolish to even suggest so.

  “But you understand, I know you do, why I refuse. You understand what it is you’re asking.”

  “I do. I just wish you would reconsider, Cousin.”

  “No.”

  I gestured inconsequence. “It’s just as well. I don�
�t have any plans, no play beyond this obvious one.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You haven’t known me very long, Cousin,” I said. “Did you know, about a year ago Lieutenant Seivarden fell off a bridge. It was a long way down—a couple of kilometers. She managed to grab hold of the structure underneath, but I couldn’t reach her.”

  “Since she certainly lived to break down weeping in front of the Usurper just hours ago, you must have found some solution to the problem.”

  “I jumped with her. On the off chance that I’d be able to slow our fall before we hit the ground.” I gestured the obviousness of the story’s conclusion. “My right leg hasn’t been the same since.”

  Sphene was silent for three seconds, and then said, “I don’t think that story communicates the point you seem to imagine it does.”

  We both sat silent for a few minutes, watching the distance decrease between the shuttle and Athoek Station. “I don’t think,” I said then, “that the translator could be any sort of piece in any game of mine. The Presger don’t involve themselves in human affairs. Getting her involved would probably mean breaking the treaty.”

  “Nobody wants that,” agreed Sphene, placidly. “You don’t have any aliens up your sleeve, do you? Geck friends? Visiting Rrrrrr? No? I suppose we’re not likely to run across any new sort of alien between here and the station.”

  There was no point in answering that.

  “I’m bored,” said Translator Zeiat. Sphene and I swiveled to look at her. “I don’t like it. Sphene, did you bring the game?”

  “It wouldn’t have traveled well,” I said. “Have you ever played rhymes, Translator?”

  “I can’t say I have,” Translator Zeiat replied. “But if it’s a poetry game, I never have properly understood poetry.”