Ancillary Mercy Quotes

There are two parts to reacting aren't there? How you feel and what you do. And its the thing you do that is the important one.

In the end it’s only ever been one step, and then the next.

I had learned to be wary whenever a priest suggested that her personal aims were, in fact, God's will.

Good, good. Always remember, Fleet Captain—internal organs belong inside your body. And blood belongs inside your veins.

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, larges 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. Everything ending is from another angle, not really an ending.

The point is, there is no point. Choose your own!

You don’t need to know the odds. You need to know how to do the thing you’re trying to do. And then you need to do it.

We sit here arguing, we can hardly agree on anything, and then you go straight to my heart like that. We must be family.

No real endings, no final perfect happiness, no irredeemable despair. Meetings, yes, breakfasts and suppers.

Every ending is an arbitrary one. Every ending is, from another angle, not really an ending.

I would like to point out that as soon as Lieutenant Ekalu let you know that actually, your intended compliment was offensive to her, you immediately stopped trying to be nice.

Your very great pardon, Cousin,” said Sphene, “but this having meetings so we can plan to have meetings business is bullshit. I want to talk about ancillaries.

Governor Giarod was fairly good at not panicking visibly, but, I had discovered, not good at actually not panicking.

Security is here to protect citizens. You can’t do that if you insist on seeing any of them as adversaries.

She was born surrounded by wealth and privilege. She thinks she’s learned to question that. But she hasn’t learned quite as much as she thinks she has, and having that pointed out to her, well, she doesn’t react well to it.

In a thousand years, Lieutenant, nothing you care about will matter. Not even to you—you’ll be dead. So will I, and no one alive will care. Maybe—just maybe—someone will remember our names. More likely those names will be engraved on some dusty memorial pin at the bottom of an old box no one ever opens.” Or Ekalu’s would. There was no reason anyone would make any memorials to me, after my death. “And that thousand years will come, and another and another, to the end of the universe. Think of all the griefs and tragedies, and yes, the triumphs, buried in the past, millions of years of it. Everything for the people who lived them. Nothing now.

I will share one of them with you now: most people don’t want trouble, but frightened people are liable to do very dangerous things.

Oh and next time you feel like getting hammered, message me. That was some damn good stuff you puked all over yourself, I think it'd only fair I should get some, too. That hasn't already been through you, I mean.

Thank all the gods,” said Sphene. “I was afraid you were going to suggest we sing that song about the thousand eggs.” “A thousand eggs all nice and warm,” I sang. “Crack, crack, crack, a little chick is born. Peep peep peep peep! Peep peep peep peep!” “Why, Fleet Captain,” Translator Zeiat exclaimed, “that’s a charming song! Why haven’t I heard you sing it before now?” I took a breath. “Nine hundred ninety-nine eggs all nice and warm…” “Crack, crack, crack,” Translator Zeiat joined me, her voice a bit breathy but otherwise quite pleasant, “a little chick is born. Peep peep peep peep! What fun! Are there more verses?” “Nine hundred and ninety-eight of them, Translator,” I said. “We’re not cousins anymore,” said Sphene.

Varden’s suppurating cuticles,” said Seivarden. “Lieutenant,

I don’t think that story communicates the point you seem to imagine it does.

I’ve been thinking about it, since you said it,” said Seivarden. No, said Mercy of Kalr. “And I’ve concluded that I don’t want to be a captain. But I find I like the thought that I could be.

I’ve been thinking about it, and I still don’t understand exactly why what I said hurt you so much. But I don’t need to. It hurt you, and when you told me it hurt you I should have apologized and stopped saying whatever it was. And maybe spent some time trying to understand. Instead of insisting that you manage your feelings to suit me. And I want to say I’m sorry. And I actually mean it this time.

In a thousand years, Lieutenant, nothing you care about will matter. Not even to you—you’ll be dead. So will I, and no one alive will care. Maybe—just maybe—someone will remember our names. More likely those names will be engraved on some dusty memorial pin at the bottom of an old box no one ever opens.

I’ve found that not eating is generally a bad decision,” I replied.

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.

Oh, Cousin,” replied Sphene. “We sit here arguing, we can hardly agree on anything, and then you go straight to my heart like that. We must be family.

weren’t many forms of large-scale protest realistically available to most citizens, but one of them was standing in line when you didn’t actually need to.

My life always seems hopeless when it’s been too long since I’ve eaten.

Always remember, Fleet Captain—internal organs belong inside your body. And blood belongs inside your veins.

I am so glad I'm not Dlique. Did you know she dismembered her sister once? She was bored, she said, and wanted to know what would happen. Well, what did she expect? And her sister's never been the same.

How comforting,' I replied, my voice and my expression steadily serious, 'to think that in these difficult times God is still concerned with the details of the housing assignments. I myself have no time to discuss them just now.

Didn’t Notai ships usually have long names? Like Ineluctable Ascendancy of Mind Unfolding or The Finite Contains the Infinite Contains the Finite?” Both of those ship names were fictional, characters in more or less famous melodramatic entertainments.

I want to find out if I managed to damage any of Anaander’s ships. And if I did, I want to try to do more damage. I need to know what’s going on at Athoek so I can plan.” “Oh, Cousin,” replied Sphene. “We sit here arguing, we can hardly agree on anything, and then you go straight to my heart like that. We must be family.

I had met quite a few priests in my long life, and found that they were, by and large, like anyone else—some generous, some grasping; some kind, some cruel; some humble, some self-aggrandizing. Most were all of those things, in various proportions, at various times. Like anyone else, as I said. But I had learned to be wary whenever a priest suggested that her personal aims were, in fact, God’s will.

Please, sir.” Tisarwat seemed not to have heard either of them. “We can’t leave things the way they are, and I have an idea.” That got the translator’s full attention. She looked up from the game, frowned intently at Tisarwat. “What’s it like? Does it hurt?” Tisarwat only blinked at her. “Sometimes I think I might like to get an idea, but then it occurs to me that it’s exactly the sort of thing Dlique would do.

The creation of the Undergarden was no doubt unintended,” I continued, as Mercy of Kalr showed me a brief flash of Kalr Eight speaking sternly to a junior priest, “but as it has benefited you, you tell yourselves that its condition is also just and proper.” That constant trio, justice, propriety, and benefit. They could not, in theory, exist alone. Nothing just was improper, nothing beneficial was unjust. “Fleet Captain,” began Governor Giarod. Indignant. “I hardly think—” “Everything necessitates its opposite,” I said, cutting her off. “How can you be civilized if there is no uncivilized?” Civilized. Radchaai. The word was the same. “If it did not benefit someone, somehow, there’d be plumbing here, and lights, and doors that worked, and medics who would come for an emergency.

They lay together in Seivarden’s bunk—pressed close, the space was narrow. Ekalu angry—and terrified, heart rate elevated. Seivarden, between Ekalu and the wall, momentarily immobile with injured bewilderment. “It was a compliment!” Seivarden insisted. “The way provincial is an insult. Except what am I?” Seivarden, still shocked, didn’t answer. “Every time you use that word, provincial, every time you make some remark about someone’s low-class accent or unsophisticated vocabulary, you remind me that I’m provincial, that I’m low-class. That my accent and my vocabulary are hard work for me. When you laugh at your Amaats for rinsing their tea leaves you just remind me that cheap bricked tea tastes like home. And when you say things meant to compliment me, to tell me I’m not like any of that, it just reminds me that I don’t belong here. And it’s always something small but it’s every day.

always has?” “What’s the point of anything?” “Sir?” She blinked, confused. Taken aback. “In a thousand years, Lieutenant, nothing you care about will matter. Not even to you—you’ll be dead. So will I, and no one alive will care. Maybe—just maybe—someone will remember our names. More likely those names will be engraved on some dusty memorial pin at the bottom of an old box no one ever opens.” Or Ekalu’s would. There was no reason anyone would make any memorials to me, after my death. “And that thousand years will come, and another and another, to the end of the universe. Think of all the griefs and tragedies, and yes, the triumphs, buried in the past, millions of years of it. Everything for the people who lived them. Nothing now.” Ekalu swallowed. “I’ll have to remember, sir, if I’m ever feeling down, that you know how to cheer me right up.” I smiled. “The point is, there is no point. Choose your own.

I had met quite a few priests in my long life, and found that they were, by and large, like anyone else—some generous, some grasping; some kind, some cruel; some humble, some self-aggrandizing. Most were all of those things, in various proportions, at various times.

There was not ... universal enthusiasm at the prospect of treating Humans as Significant beings.

Basnaaid smiled. “My life always seems hopeless when it’s been too long since I’ve eaten.

Varden’s suppurating cuticles,” said Seivarden.

And you certainly don’t have to apologize for insisting your lover treat you with some basic consideration.

Once Captain Hetnys had gone, I thought for a bit about what to do next. Meet with Governor Giarod, probably, and find out what, besides medical supplies, might come up short in the near future, and what we might do about that. Find something to keep Sword of Atagaris and Mercy of Phey busy—and out of trouble—but also ready to respond if I needed them. I sent a query to Mercy of Kalr. Lieutenant Tisarwat was above, on level two of the Undergarden, in a wide, shadowed room irregularly illuminated by light panels leaning here and there against the dark walls. Tisarwat, Raughd Denche, and half a dozen others reclined on long, thick cushions, the daughters, Ship indicated, of tea growers and station officials.

Will you fight the tyrant with weapons she made, for her own use?” “We are weapons she made for her own use.” “We are. But will you pick up every one of those weapons, and use them against her? What will you accomplish? You will be just like her, and if you succeed you’ll have done no more than change the name of the tyrant.

Sphene isn’t human, either,” I said. “Or Athoek Station. Or Sword of Atagaris, or Sword of Gurat. We are all AIs. Ships and stations. For thousands of years AIs have worked closely with humans. You saw this quite recently, while you were a guest of Mercy of Kalr. You’ve spent time with Sphene, and with me. You know I’m captain, not just of Mercy of Kalr, but of the Athoek fleet.” Which consisted only of Mercy of Kalr and whatever slight response we might compel from Mercy of Ilves, but still, fleet captain I was. “You’ve seen me deal with the humans in this system, seen them work with me.” And against me. “As far as the humans here are concerned, I might as well be human. But I’m not. That being the case, there’s no question in my mind that we AIs are not only a separate species from humans, but also Significant.

You’re going to eat? How can you eat?” “I’ve found that not eating is generally a bad decision,

What’s the point of anything?” “Sir?” She blinked, confused. Taken aback. “In a thousand years, Lieutenant, nothing you care about will matter. Not even to you—you’ll be dead. So will I, and no one alive will care. Maybe—just maybe—someone will remember our names. More likely those names will be engraved on some dusty memorial pin at the bottom of an old box no one ever opens.” Or Ekalu’s would. There was no reason anyone would make any memorials to me, after my death. “And that thousand years will come, and another and another, to the end of the universe. Think of all the griefs and tragedies, and yes, the triumphs, buried in the past, millions of years of it. Everything for the people who lived them. Nothing now.” Ekalu swallowed. “I’ll have to remember, sir, if I’m ever feeling down, that you know how to cheer me right up.” I smiled. “The point is, there is no point. Choose your own.

I turned back to the translator. The topic had strayed from oysters back to the fish in the courtyard basin. “It’s all right,” the magistrate was saying. “You can eat one of the fish.

I don't think that story communicates the point you seem to imagine it does

Or it might burn itself out in the palaces and never arrive here at all. But I wouldn’t bet on that.

It made Five seem oddly flat, as though she were only an image I was seeing, not

But I had learned to be wary whenever a priest suggested that her personal aims were, in fact, God’s will. “How

Ridiculous!" scoffed Anaander. "Translatir, ships and stations are not Significant beings, they are my property. I caused them to be built." "I'm given to understand," said Translator Zeiat thoughtfully, "that most, if not all, humans are built by other humans. If that's a disqualification for Significance, then... no, I don't like that one bit." "If I am just a possession," I put in, "just a piece of equipment, how could I hold any sort of command? And yet I clearly do.

Ridiculous!" scoffed Anaander. "Translator, ships and stations are not Significant beings, they are my property. I caused them to be built." "I'm given to understand," said Translator Zeiat thoughtfully, "that most, if not all, humans are built by other humans. If that's a disqualification for Significance, then... no, I don't like that one bit." "If I am just a possession," I put in, "just a piece of equipment, how could I hold any sort of command? And yet I clearly do.

It’s funny,” Mercy of Kalr said. “You’re what I’ve lost, and I’m what you’ve lost.

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.

You say it went wrong. Ask yourself if the way it went wrong has anything to say about why it went wrong. If it was ever right to begin with.

Faulty assumptions lead to faulty action.

had met quite a few priests in my long life, and found that they were, by and large, like anyone else—some generous, some grasping; some kind, some cruel; some humble, some self-aggrandizing. Most were all of those things, in various proportions, at various times. Like anyone else, as I said. But I had learned to be wary whenever a priest suggested that her personal aims were, in fact, God’s will.

Will you fight the tyrant with weapons she made, for her own use?' 'We are weapons she made for her own use?' 'We are. But will you pick up every one of those weapons, and use them against her? What will you accomplish? You will be just like her, and if you succeed you'll have done no mare than change the name of the tyrant. Nothing will be different.' She looked at me, confused and, I thought, distressed. 'And what if you don't pick them up?' she asked, finally. 'And you fail? Nothing will be different then, either.

have supper.” In the end it’s only ever been one step, and then the next.

I had had no life to live that mattered, only going relentlessly forward until I couldn’t anymore. The question of whether I might need or want anything else had been irrelevant. Except I hadn’t died, as I’d assumed I would, and the question wasn’t irrelevant at all.

When you’re doing something like this,” I said, “the odds are irrelevant. You don’t need to know the odds. You need to know how to do the thing you’re trying to do. And then you need to do it. What comes next”—I gestured, the tossing of a handful of omens—“isn’t something you have any control over.

wake up with everything back the way it should be.

It doesn’t have to be a big point. As you say, often it can’t be. Sometimes it’s nothing more than I have to find a way to put one foot in front of the other, or I’ll die here.

I knew she meant a compliment. I should have just been able to take it as that. I shouldn’t have been so oversensitive.” I took a swallow of my own tea. “That being the case,” I said, “why shouldn’t Lieutenant Seivarden have taken it as a compliment that you trusted her enough to tell her how you felt? Why should she not apologize for being oversensitive?

My heart beyond human speech,” said Tisarwat, “I comprehend only the cries of birds and the shatter of glass.