Ancillary Sword (Imperial Radch Book 2)

by Ann Leckie

  Thirty seconds after Seivarden left, Tisarwat came into my cubicle. I shifted my legs over, gestured an invitation to sit. “Lieutenant,” I said, as she settled herself, gingerly. There were still correctives around her torso, cracked ribs and other injuries still healing. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” she said. “I think Medic has me dosed up. I can tell because I’m not wishing every ten minutes or so that you’d thrown me out the airlock when you found me.”

  “That’s recent, I think?” I hadn’t thought she’d been suicidal before now. But I had, perhaps, not been paying as much attention as I should have.

  “No, it’s always been there. Just… just not so real. Not so intense. It was when I saw what Captain Hetnys had done, threatened to kill Horticulturist Basnaaid to get to you. I knew it was my fault.”

  “Your fault?” I didn’t think it had been the fault of anyone in particular, except of course Hetnys herself. “I don’t doubt your politicking alarmed her. It was obvious that you were angling for influence. But it’s also true that I knew about it from the start, and would have prevented you if I’d disapproved.”

  Relief—just a bit. Her mood was calm, stable. She was entirely correct in her guess that Medic had given her something. “That’s the thing. If I may speak very frankly, sir.” I gestured permission. “Do you understand, sir, that we’re both doing exactly what she wants?” She could only be Anaander Mianaai, Lord of the Radch. “She sent us here to do exactly what we’re doing. Doesn’t it bother you, sir, that she took something she knew you wanted and used it to make you do what she wanted?”

  “Sometimes it does,” I admitted. “But then I remember that what she wants isn’t terribly important to me.”

  Before Tisarwat could answer, Medic came frowning into the room. “I have you here so you can rest, Fleet Captain, not take endless meetings.”

  “What meetings?” I affected an innocent expression. “The lieutenant and I are both patients here, and both resting, as you see.”

  Medic hmphed.

  “And you can’t blame me for being impatient with it,” I continued. “I just rested for two weeks, downwell. There’s a lot to catch up on.”

  “You call that rest, do you?” asked Medic.

  “Up until the bomb went off, yes.”

  “Medic,” said Tisarwat. “Am I going to be on meds the rest of my life?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Medic. Seriously. Honestly. “I hope not, but I can’t promise that.” Turned to me. “I’d say no more visitors, Fleet Captain, but I know you’ll overrule me for Horticulturist Basnaaid.”

  “Basnaaid’s coming?” Tisarwat, already sitting straight because of the corrective around her rib cage, seemed to straighten even more. “Fleet Captain, can I go back to the station with her?”

  “Absolutely not,” Medic said.

  “You might not want to,” I said. “She might not want to spend much time with any of us. You weren’t listening, I think, on the shuttle when I told her I’d killed her sister.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t heard. Had been too preoccupied with her own misery. Understandably.

  “Bed, Lieutenant,” Medic insisted. Tisarwat looked to me for reprieve, but as I gave none, she sighed and left for her own cubicle, trailed by Medic.

  I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Basnaaid was a good twenty minutes from docking. Sword of Atagaris’s engines were off-line. All its officers were in suspension. Along with nearly all its ancillaries, only a last few locking things down while a handful of my own Amaats watched. Since its bitter words to me in the shuttle, Sword of Atagaris had said nothing beyond the absolutely necessary and functional. Straightforward answers to questions of fact. Yes. No. Nothing more.

  Where I sat in Medical, Kalr Twelve came into the room, right up to the bed. Reluctant. Intensely embarrassed. I sat up straight, opened my eyes.

  “Sir,” Twelve said, quiet and tense. Almost a whisper. “I’m Ship.” Reached out to lay an arm across my shoulders.

  “Twelve, you know by now that I’m an ancillary.” Surprise. Dismay. She knew, yes, but my saying it took her aback. Before she could say anything, I added, “Please don’t tell me it doesn’t matter because you don’t really think of me as an ancillary.”

  A swift consultation, between Twelve and Ship. “Your indulgence, sir,” said Twelve then, with Ship’s encouragement. “I don’t think that’s entirely fair. We haven’t known until now, so it would be difficult for us to think of you any other way than we have been.” She had a point. “And we haven’t had very long to get used to the idea. But, sir, it does explain some things.”

  No doubt it did. “I know that Ship appreciates it when you act for it, and your ancillary façade lets you feel safe and invisible. But being an ancillary isn’t something to play at.”

  “No, sir. I can see that, sir. But like you said, Ship appreciates it. And Ship takes care of us, sir. Sometimes it feels like it’s us and Ship against everyone else.” Self-conscious. Embarrassed.

  “I know,” I said. “That’s why I haven’t tried to stop it.” I took a breath. “So, are you all right with this, right now?”

  “Yes, sir,” Twelve said. Still embarrassed. But sincere.

  I closed my eyes, and leaned my head against her shoulder, and she wrapped both arms around me. It wasn’t the same, it wasn’t me holding myself, though I could feel not only Twelve’s uniform jacket against my cheek, but the weight of my own head against her shoulder. I reached for it, for as much as I could have, Twelve’s embarrassment, yes, but also concern for me. The other Kalrs moving about the ship. Not the same. It couldn’t be the same.

  We were both silent a moment, and then Twelve said, for Ship, “I suppose I can’t blame Sword of Atagaris for caring about its captain. I would have expected better taste, though, from a Sword.”

  The Swords were so arrogant, so sure they were better than the Mercies and the Justices. But some things you just can’t help. “Ship,” I said, aloud, “Twelve’s arm is getting uncomfortable. And I have to get ready to receive Horticulturist Basnaaid.” We disengaged, Twelve stepping back, and I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “Medic.” Medic was down the corridor, but I knew she would hear me. “I’m not receiving Horticulturist Basnaaid like this. I’m going back to my quarters.” I would need to wash my face, and dress, and make sure there was tea and food to offer her, even if I was certain she would refuse it.

  “Can she have come all this way,” asked Twelve, asked Ship, “merely to tell you how much she hates you?”

  “If so,” I replied, “I will listen without arguing. She has every right, after all.”

  My shoulder, still encased in its corrective, wouldn’t fit inside my shirt, although with some careful maneuvering I could get my arm inside a uniform jacket. Twelve wouldn’t tolerate the idea of my meeting Horticulturist Basnaaid shirtless, jacket or not, and grimly slit the back of a shirtsleeve. “Five will understand when I explain, sir,” she said, though with some private fear that perhaps she might not. Five was still back in the Undergarden, helping to get things secured so no one would be hurt when the gravity went back on.

  By the time Basnaaid arrived, I was dressed and had managed to look a bit less as though I’d just fallen off a cliff and then nearly drowned or asphyxiated. I debated for a moment whether to wear Lieutenant Awn’s gold memorial tag, since it had seemed to anger Basnaaid the last time she had seen it, but in the end I had Twelve pin it to my jacket, next to Translator Dlique’s silver and opal. Twelve had managed to produce a stack of small cakes and laid them out on my table along with dredgefruit and, at long last, the very best porcelain, the plain, graceful white tea set I’d seen last at Omaugh, in that last meeting with Anaander Mianaai. On first thought, I was astonished that Five had gotten up the courage to ask for it. On second thought, it wasn’t the least bit surprising.

  I bowed as Basnaaid entered. “Fleet Captain,” she said, bowing herself. “I hope I’m not inconveniencing you
. It’s just that I thought we ought to talk in person.”

  “No inconvenience at all, Horticulturist. I am at your service.” I gestured with my one good arm to a chair. “Will you sit?”

  We sat. Twelve poured tea, and then went to stand, stiff and ancillary-like, in the corner of the room. “I want to know,” Basnaaid said, after a polite sip of tea, “what happened to my sister.”

  I told her. How Lieutenant Awn had discovered the split in Anaander Mianaai, and what one side of the Lord of the Radch was doing. How she had refused to obey the orders of that Anaander, and as a result the Lord of the Radch had ordered her execution. Which I had carried out. And then, for reasons I still didn’t fully understand, I had turned my gun on the Lord of the Radch. Who had destroyed me as a result, all of me except One Esk Nineteen, the only part of me to escape.

  When I finished, Basnaaid was silent for a good ten seconds. Then she said, “So you were part of her decade? One Esk, yes?”

  “One Esk Nineteen, yes.”

  “She always said you took such good care of her.”

  “I know.”

  She gave a small laugh. “Of course you do. That’s how you’ve read all my poetry, too. How embarrassing.”

  “It wasn’t bad, considering.” Lieutenant Awn hadn’t been the only officer with a baby sister who wrote poetry. “Lieutenant Awn enjoyed it very much. Truly she did. She loved to get your messages.”

  “I’m glad,” she said, simply.

  “Horticulturist, I…” But I couldn’t speak, not and keep my composure. A cake or a piece of fruit was too complicated a way to distract myself. A sip of tea insufficient. I waited, merely, Basnaaid sitting patient and quiet across the table, also waiting. “Ships care about their officers,” I said, when I thought I could speak again. “We can’t help it, it’s how we’re made. But some officers we care for more than others.” Now, perhaps, I could manage it. “I loved your sister very much.”

  “I’m glad of that, too,” she said. “Truly I am. And I understand now why you made the offer you did. But I still can’t accept.” I remembered her conversation with Tisarwat, in the sitting room in the Undergarden. None of it was for me. “I don’t think you can buy forgiveness, even at a price like that.”

  “It wasn’t forgiveness I wanted.” The only person who could give me that in any way that mattered was dead.

  Basnaaid thought about that for a few moments. “I can’t even imagine it,” she said, finally. “To be part of something so big, for so long, and then suddenly to be so completely alone.” She paused, and then, “You must have mixed feelings about the Lord of the Radch adopting you into Mianaai.”

  “Not mixed at all.”

  She smiled ruefully. Then, calmly serious, “I’m not sure how I feel about what you’ve just told me.”

  “You don’t owe me any account of how you feel, or any explanation of why you feel it. But my offer stands. If you change your mind, it will still be open.”

  “What if you have children?”

  For a moment, I had difficulty believing she had suggested such a thing. “Can you imagine me with an infant, Citizen?”

  She smiled. “You have a point. But all sorts of people are mothers.”

  True. “And all sorts of people aren’t. The offer is always open. But I will not mention it again, unless you change your mind. How are things in Horticulture? Are they ready to turn the gravity back on?”

  “Almost. When Station turned it off there was more water than just the lake lying around. It’s been a job chasing all that down. We didn’t lose as many fish as we thought we would, though.”

  I thought of the children I’d seen running down to the bridge to feed the fish, bright-scaled, purple and green and orange and blue. “That’s good.”

  “Most of the first level of the Undergarden escaped damage, but the support level will have to be entirely rebuilt before the water can go back into the lake. It turns out that it had been leaking for some time, but a very small amount.”

  “Let me guess.” I picked up my tea. “The mushrooms.”

  “The mushrooms!” She laughed. “I should have known, the moment I heard someone was growing mushrooms in the Undergarden, what that meant. Yes, they’d crawled into the support level and started growing mushrooms. But it seems like the structures they built under the lake supports, and all the organic material packed in there for a substrate, actually kept the Undergarden from flooding for longer than it should have. But that’s also where most of the damage was. I’m afraid the Undergarden mushroom industry is gone.”

  “I hope they’ll allow for that, when they rebuild the supports.” I would have to say as much to Station Administrator Celar and Governor Giarod. And I would have to remind Governor Giarod of what I’d said about not taking away the specialties of Undergarden residents.

  “I suspect if you mention it, Fleet Captain, they will.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “What’s happened to Sirix?”

  Basnaaid frowned. “She’s in Security. I… I don’t know. I like Sirix, even though she’s always seemed a bit… prickly. I still can’t quite believe that she would…” She trailed off, at a loss. “If you’d asked me before this, I’d have said she’d never, ever do anything wrong. Not like that. But I heard, I don’t know if it’s true, that she’d gone to Security to turn herself in, and they were on their way to the Gardens when the section doors closed.”

  I would have to say something to Governor Giarod, about Sirix. “She was very disappointed in me, I think.” She could not possibly have acted from anger. “She has been waiting all this time for justice to arrive, and she thought maybe I was bringing it. But her idea of justice is… not the same as mine.”

  Basnaaid sighed. “How is Tisarwat?”

  “She’s fine.” More or less. “Horticulturist, Tisarwat has a terrible crush on you.”

  She smiled. “I know. I think it’s kind of sweet.” And then frowned. “Actually, what she did in the Gardens the other day was well beyond sweet.”

  “It was,” I agreed. “I think she’s feeling somewhat fragile right now, which is why I mention it.”

  “Tisarwat, fragile!” Basnaaid laughed. “But then, people can look very strong on the outside when they’re not, can’t they. You, for instance, could probably stand to lie down a bit, even though you don’t look it. I should go.”

  “Please stay for supper.” She was right, I needed to lie down, or perhaps I needed Twelve to bring me some cushions. “It’s a long ride back, and it’s much more comfortable to eat with gravity. I won’t impose my company on you, but I know Tisarwat would be glad to see you, and I’m sure the rest of my officers would like to meet you. More formally, I mean.” She didn’t answer right away. “Are you all right? You had just as difficult a time as the rest of us.”

  “I’m fine.” And then, “Mostly. I think. To be honest, Fleet Captain, I feel like… like everything I thought I could depend on has disappeared, like none of it was ever true to begin with and I’ve only just realized it, and now, I don’t know. I mean, I thought I was safe, I thought I knew who everyone was. And I was wrong.”

  “I know that feeling,” I said. I couldn’t go much longer without those cushions. And my leg had begun to ache, for no reason I could see. “Eventually, you start making sense out of things again.”

  “I’d like to have supper with you and Tisarwat,” she said, as though it was an answer to what I’d just said. “And anyone else you’d invite.”

  “I’m glad.” Without any order from me, Twelve left her place in the corner, went to open one of the storage benches lining the wall. Pulled out three cushions. “Tell me, Horticulturist, can you say, in verse, how God is like a duck?”

  Basnaaid blinked, surprised. Laughed. What I had hoped for when I had changed the topic so abruptly. Twelve pushed a pillow behind my back, and two under the elbow of my immobilized left arm. I said, “Thank you, Twelve.”

  “There once was a duck who was God,” said Basnaai
d. “Who said, it’s exceedingly odd. I fly when I wish and I swim like a fish…” She frowned. “That’s as far as I can go. And it’s only doggerel, not even a proper mode or meter. I’m out of practice.”

  “It’s farther than I’d have gotten.” I closed my eyes, for just a moment. Tisarwat lay on her bed in Medical, eyes closed while Ship played music in her ears. Bo Nine nearby, watching. Etrepas scrubbed their corridors, or stood watch with Ekalu. Amaats rested, or exercised, or bathed. Seivarden sat on her own bunk, melancholy for some reason, still thinking, perhaps, of missed opportunities in her past. Medic grumbled to Ship about my disregard for her advice, though there wasn’t any real anger in it. Kalr One, cooking for me while Five was still on the station, fretted to Three about the sudden change in supper plans, though the fretting turned very quickly to the certainty that between the two of them they could meet the challenge. In the bath, an Amaat began to sing. My mother said it all goes around, it all goes around, the ship goes around the station.

  It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t what I wanted, not really, wasn’t what I knew I would always reach for. But it would have to be enough.

  Acknowledgments

  So many people have given me invaluable help, without which I could not have written this book. My instructors and classmates of the Clarion West class of 2005 continue to be a source of inspiration, assistance, and friendship that I could not do without. My work is also the better for the help of my editors, Will Hinton in the US and Jenni Hill in the UK.

  I have said before, and will say again, that there is not enough thanks in the world for my fabulous agent, Seth Fishman.

  Thanks are also due to many people who offered advice or information, and who were patient with my questions: S. Hutson Blount, Carolyn Ives Gilman, Sarah Goleman, Dr. Philip Edward Kaldon, Dr. Brin Schuler, Anna Schwind, Kurt Schwind, Mike Swirsky, and Rachel Swirsky. Their information and advice was invariably correct and wise—any missteps are entirely my own.