Record Of A Spaceborn Few Quotes

From the ground, we stand. From our ships, we live. By the stars, we hope.

The guilt lingered, even so. Ghosts were imaginary, but hauntings were real.

We are a longstanding species with a very short memory. If we don’t keep record, we’ll make the same mistakes over and over again.

Our species doesn’t operate by reality. It operates by stories. Cities are a story. Money is a story. Space was a story, once. A king tells us a story about who we are and why we’re great, and that story is enough to make us go kill people who tell a different story. Or maybe the people kill the king because they don’t like his story and have begun to tell themselves a different one.

Figure out what you love, specifically. In detail. Figure out what you want to keep. Figure out what you want to change. Otherwise, it’s not love. It’s clinging to the familiar

From the stars, came the ground. From the ground, we stood. To the ground, we return

My own research methodology professor phrased this concept succinctly: learn nothing of your subjects, and you will disrupt them. Learn something of your subjects, and you will disrupt them.

We're our own warning.

We’re made out of our ancestors. They’re what keep us alive.

The only way to really appreciate your way is to compare it to somebody else's way. Figure out what you love, specifically. In detail. Figure out what you want to keep. Figure out what you want to change. Otherwise, it's not love. It's clinging to the familiar--to the comfortable--and that's a dangerous thing for us short-term thinkers to do. If you stay, stay because you want to, because you've found something here worth embodying, because you believe in it. Otherwise...well, there's no point in being here at all, is there?

Academic prowess and base intelligence are two separate things.

If you never leave, you'll always wonder.  You'll wonder what your life could've been, if you did the right thing. Well... scratch that. You'll always wonder if you did the right thing, no matter what your decision is, big or small.  There's always another path you'll wonder about.

What was better – a constant safeness that never grew and never changed, or a life of reaching, building, striving, even though you knew you’d never be completely satisfied?

We are the wealthiest species alive today. We want for nothing. Without us, there would be no tunnels, no ambi, no galactic map. But we achieved these things through subjugation. Violence. We destroyed entire worlds - entire species. It took a galactic war to stop us. We learned. We apologized. We changed. But we can't give back the things we took. We're still benefiting from them, and others are still suffering from actions centuries old. So, are we worthy? We, who give so much only because we took so much?

We’re meant to go. And we’re meant to stay. Stay and go, each as much as the other. It’s not all or nothing anymore. We’re all over the place. That’s better, I think. That’s smarter.’ He nodded. ‘That’s how we’ll survive, even if not all of us do.

I am seventy-nine years old. If I want dessert twice ... I get dessert twice.

Rarely in history had things turned out well for people who chose to lock themselves away

Knowledge should always be free,’ she said. ‘What people do with it is up to them.

Kip cleared his throat and gave a brave smile. ‘We destroyed our world,’ he said, ‘and left it for the skies. Our numbers were few. Our species had scattered. We were the last to leave. We left the ground behind. We left the oceans. We left the air. We watched these things grow small. We watched them shrink into a point of light. As we watched, we understood. We understood what we were. We understood what we had lost. We understood what we would need to do to survive. We abandoned more than our ancestors’ world. We abandoned our short sight. We abandoned our bloody ways. We made ourselves anew.’ He spread his hands, encompassing the gathered. ‘We are the Exodus Fleet. We are those that wandered, that wander still. We are the homesteaders that shelter our families. We are the miners and foragers in the open. We are the ships that ferry between. We are the explorers who carry our names. We are the parents who lead the way. We are the children who continue on.’ He picked up his scrib from the podium. ‘What is his name?

From the stars, came the ground. From the ground, we stood. To the ground, we return.

Our species doesn't operate by reality. It operates by stories.

Ghosts were imaginary, but hauntings were real.

We abandoned our short sight. We abandoned our bloody ways. We made ourselves anew.

Was there any day for her that would not involve the same schedule, the same faces, the same tasks? What was better –a constant safeness that never grew and never changed, or a life of reaching, building, striving, even though you knew you’d never be completely satisfied?

What that perspective is, I have no idea. But you’ll find one. Otherwise, you’ll only ever think about other people in the abstract. That’s a poisonous thing, thinking your way is all there is.

Amias Mitchell,’ Kip said. ‘Born aboard the Asteria. Forty Solar days of age as of GC standard day 211/310. He is now, and always, a member of our Fleet. By our laws, he is assured shelter and passage here. If we have food, he will eat. If we have air, he will breathe. If we have fuel, he will fly. He is son to all grown, brother to all still growing. We will care for him, protect him, guide him. We welcome you, Amias, to the decks of the Asteria, and to the journey we take together.’ He spoke the final words now, and the room joined him. ‘From the ground, we stand. From our ships, we live. By the stars, we hope.

but she was glad the majority of her neighbours shared her view that practicality became dreary if you didn’t balance it out properly.

Perhaps none of us can truly explain death. Perhaps none of us should.

Clear divisions between right and wrong were rare in her work.

learn nothing of your subjects, and you will disrupt them. Learn something of your subjects, and you will disrupt them.

There was a difference between being shy and being sequestered. Rarely in history had things turned out well for people who chose to lock themselves away.

of all the things he didn’t feel like talking with his dad about, Jasper Jacobs’ arms were in the top three.

If trying something new was valid, then keeping something old was, too.

In the grand tradition of siblings everywhere, Tessa wanted to kill her brother. Not permanently kill him. Just a casual spacing to get her point across, followed by a quick resurrection and a hot cup of tea.

A complicated job, but not a taxing one, and one where you could count on most days going exactly the way you’d thought they’d go when you woke up. Compared to the constant familial chaos of home, she valued that.

The problem was that what he wanted, more than anything, was to fuck someone or fight something, and he knew – from experience, now – that if given the opportunity, he’d be too scared to do either. Cool. Real cool.

Our species doesn’t operate by reality. It operates by stories. Cities are a story. Money is a story. Space was a story, once. A king tells us a story about who we are and why we’re great, and that story is enough to make us go kill people who tell a different story. Or maybe the people kill the king because they don’t like his story and have begun to tell themselves a different one. When our planet started dying, our species was so caught up in stories. We had thousands of stories about ourselves – that’s still true, don’t forget that for a minute – but not enough of us were looking at the reality of things. Once reality caught up with us and we started changing our stories to acknowledge it, it was too late.

We're coming in at their happy ending and not stopping to think about how they got there. We want to take on their story. And we can, if we want to. But I worry about those who think adopting someone else's story means abandoning their own.

We destroyed our world,’ she said, ‘and left it for the skies. Our numbers were few. Our species had scattered. We were the last to leave. We left the ground behind. We left the oceans. We left the air. We watched these things grow small. We watched them shrink into a point of light. As we watched, we understood. We understood what we were. We understood what we had lost. We understood what we would need to do to survive. We abandoned more than our ancestors’ world. We abandoned our short sight. We abandoned our bloody ways. We made ourselves anew.

From the stars, came the ground. From the ground, we stood. To the ground, we return. Here, at the Centre of our lives, we carry our beloved dead. We honour their breath, which fills our lungs. We honour their blood, which fills our hearts. We honour their bodies, which fuel our own. We honor you.

Do you know,’ Isabel said with a grin, ‘that during late pregnancy, sometimes you can see the baby’s features pressing through the mother’s skin?’ The Harmagian’s eyestalks gave a slight pull downwards. ‘… not the face.’ ‘Sometimes the face.’ Ghuh’loloan made a sound of good-humoured revulsion. ‘My dear Isabel, I really do recommend that your species try spawning like normal people do. It is far, far less disturbing.

Born aboard the Asteria. Forty Solar days of age as of GC standard day 158/307. She is now, and always, a member of our Fleet. By our laws, she is assured shelter and passage here. If we have food, she will eat. If we have air, she will breathe. If we have fuel, she will fly. She is daughter to all grown, sister to all still growing. We will care for her, protect her, guide her. We welcome you, Robin, to the decks of the Asteria, and to the journey we take together.

Comforts are not bad things, not by base. There's nothing wrong with wanting to make life easier. [...] The comforts we've invented - or that our neighbours have invented - can become bad if you don't always, always ask what the potential consequences could be. Many of our people skip that step. Many - not all, but many - leave here and are too eager to change their story. [...] But I worry about those who think adopting someone else's story means abandoning their own.

They climbed up the crane’s service ladder, then clambered along the fat metal supports. The crane was way taller than it had looked from the floor, and Kip was a little scared–not like scared scared, he wasn’t a baby–but the climb wasn’t hard. It was kind of like the obstacle course at the playground, only way bigger. Besides, he was with his dad. If Dad said it was okay, it was okay. The other people already on the crane smiled at them. ‘Pull up a seat,’ one lady shouted. Dad laughed. ‘Don’t mind if we do.’ He swung himself into an empty spot. ‘Come on, Kip.

hard work keeps you honest. Keeps your head on straight.

Dude, listen, this is - this is important. What you see is different from what I see. And nobody's ever seen this before. Nobody's ever seen the oxygen garden exactly like I'm seeing it, but it's - it's not like you're seeing it. Kip, we're - we're not sharing anything. Nobody has ever shared anything.

There it was again – that tiredness, that nameless tiredness. It wasn’t lack of sleep, or overwork, or because anything was wrong. Nothing was wrong. She was healthy. She had a good home with good friends, and a full belly when she remembered

There it was again – that tiredness, that nameless tiredness. It wasn’t lack of sleep, or overwork, or because anything was wrong.

There is no such thing as a meaningless job in the Fleet. Everything has a purpose, a recognisable benefit. If you have food on your plate, you thank a farmer. If you have clothing, you thank a textile manufacturer. If you have murals to brighten your day, you thank an artist. Even the most menial of tasks benefits someone, benefits all.

Our species doesn’t operate by reality. It operates by stories. Cities are a story. Money is a story. Space was a story, once. A king tells us a story about who we are and why we’re great, and that story is enough to make us go kill people who tell a different story. Or maybe the people kill the king because they don’t like his story and have begun to tell themselves a different

We are a longstanding species with a very short memory. If we don’t keep record, we’ll make the same mistakes over and over.

It’s simple. If you never leave, you’ll always wonder. You’ll wonder what your life could’ve been, if you did the right thing. Well . . . scratch that. You’ll always wonder if you did the right thing, no matter what the decision is, big or small. There’s always another path you’ll wonder about. But that wondering is less maddening if you know what the other path looks like, at least.

That’s a poisonous thing, thinking your way is all there is.

you helped this man. You helped the right people find him. You’re the closest thing he has to a friend.

Everything was tingly. Kip had thoughts beyond that one, amazing thoughts that people probably needed to hear. Toes were weird – like really weird, if you thought about it. Thinking was weird, too. He could think about what he was thinking about. Did that mean that there was a separate part of him? A thinking part and a . . . thinking thinking part? That was a super good idea, but first: cake. Man, he loved cake. He wished he had a cake. He imagined a cake so big he could put his face down into it and the frosting would rise up and up around him, like the waves of seafoam in the theatre vids, only thick, dense, enveloping him, taking the place of air, sliding in closer and closer and – and no, no, that was scary. He didn’t like cake. Cake needed to stay small and manageable and away from his nostrils.

Once reality caught up with us and we started changing our stories to acknowledge it, it was too late.

so no, I don’t think technology is the greater evil here. The comforts we’ve invented – or that our neighbours have invented – can become bad if you don’t always, always ask what the potential consequences could be.

We are a longstanding species with a very short memory. If we don’t keep record, we’ll make the same mistakes over and over. I think it is a good thing that the Fleet is changing, that our people are spreading out.

The words I don’t need you made a part of her shrivel in on itself, but then, wasn’t that the point of being a parent?

Cool. Implement those ways planetside. Make sure people don’t forget. Make sure people remember that a closed system is a closed system even when you can’t see the edges.

Amias Mitchell,’ Kip said. ‘Born aboard the Asteria. Forty Solar days of age as of GC standard day 211/310.

We are the Exodus Fleet. We are those that wandered, that wander still. We are the homesteaders that shelter our families. We are the miners and foragers in the open. We are the ships that ferry between.

Was there any day for her that would not involve the same schedule, the same faces, the same tasks? What was better – a constant safeness that never grew and never changed, or a life of reaching, building, striving, even though you knew you’d never be completely satisfied?

It is without question that there are many ways in which Exodans have benefited from GC influence. Imubots, artigrav, algae fuel, tunnel access – and of course, mek, which Exodans drink in quantities on par with the rest of the galaxy.

You become a doctor because you want to help people. You become a pilot because you want to fly. You become a farmer because you want to work with growing things, or because you want to feed others. To an Exodan, the question of choosing a profession is not one of what do I need? but rather what am I good at? What good can I do?

A job is partly a matter of personal fulfilment, yes, but also – and perhaps chiefly – social fulfilment. When an Exodan asks ‘what do you do?’, the real question is: ‘What do you do for us?

Central space, Oates said?’ ‘That’s right.’ Sawyer took a seat. ‘Mushtullo.

Maybe . . . maybe that was the problem. So many years of training and study, always striving, always chasing the ideal at the end of the road. She’d reached that end by now. She had everything she’d set out to do. So now . . . what? What came next? Maintaining things as-is? Do well, be consistent, keep things up for however long she had?

The only reason Humans stopped killing each other to the extent they used to, I think, is because your planet died before you could finish the job.

Either we are all worthy of the Commons, dear Tamsin, or none of us are.

If you never leave, you’ll always wonder. You’ll wonder what your life could’ve been, if you did the right thing.

Death is recycling. Proteins and nutrients, ’round and ’round. And you can’t stop that. Take a living person off Earth, put them in a sealed metal canister out in a vacuum, take them so far away from their planet of origin that they might not understand what a forest or an ocean is when you tell them about one – and they are still linked to that cycle. When we decompose under the right conditions, we turn into soil – something awfully like it, anyway. You see? We’re not detached from Earth. We turn into earth.

The kid would be handsome in a year or two, but puberty wasn’t going to let him get there without a fight.

or charismatic Skeet, whose ambitious dreams were so easy to become smitten with until you realised there was no work ethic to back them up.

We die one way or another, that's a given. What's not, is being remembered after the fact. To ensure that, you have to put in some effort.

He knew what he wanted from them. A posse. A crew. A real crew, like he’d seen in vids and sims. People who looked after each other. People who were messy sometimes, but could pull together when stuff got tough. People who would laugh at his jokes, and give him a nickname, maybe, who would knock on his door late at night because they knew where they could go with their problems. People who always had a spot at the table for him. People to whom he mattered.

I really do recommend that your species try spawning like normal people do. It is far, far less disturbing.

Devastatingly,’ M Aksoy said. ‘That’s a better translation. Devastatingly hot. I don’t know if they’re any good, but if you like them, you know where to trade for more.’ ‘Thanks, M,’ Ras said. ‘Yeah, thanks, M,’ said Kip.

So it’s true, then,’ Ghuh’loloan said with delighted disgust. ‘You expel organs during live birth.

Our species doesn’t operate by reality. It operates by stories. Cities are a story. Money is a story. Space was a story, once. A king tells us a story about who we are and why we’re great, and that story is enough to make us go kill people who tell a different story. Or maybe the people kill the king because they don’t like his story and have begun to tell themselves a different one. When our planet started dying, our species was so caught up in stories. We had thousands of stories about ourselves – that’s still true, don’t forget that for a minute – but not enough of us were looking at the reality of things. Once reality caught up with us and we started changing our stories to acknowledge it, it was too late.’ She

While she very much enjoyed being around the living, sometimes her own thoughts were noise enough.

Nothing about this was normal. Nothing about this was okay.

How were they supposed to deal with this? How would they give these people dignity? How would they ever, ever make this right?

Nor do some professions receive more resources than others, or finer housing, or any such tangible benefits. You become a doctor because you want to help people. You become a pilot because you want to fly. You become a farmer because you want to work with growing things, or because you want to feed others. To an Exodan, the question of choosing a profession is not one of what do I need? but rather what am I good at? What good can I do?

which goods are accessible means that anybody with a new idea – mechanical, scientific, artistic, what have you – has the resources to bring it to life.

He remembered one time watching this crime-solving vid set on Titan – Murder on the Silver Sea – where some characters were at a fancy restaurant having this crazy smart conversation where the investigator and the informant both think the other one’s the killer and they were saying it but they’re not really saying it – and also they kind of wanted to bang each other? That scene had layers, seriously – and when the conversation was done, they just . . . left their food. Like, let the server come get it while they walked out of the place. The scene would’ve made sense if one of them wasn’t hungry or had a stomach ache or something, but if that were the case, then the other one would’ve reached over and eaten the leftovers. But no. Both of them left. They left half-plates of food on the table. It was the weirdest shit. He

Knowledge should always be free. What people do with it is up to them.

Our lives are defined by the aggregate of all that happens during the waking.

I can only tell you what I want you to do, and that's based on my shallow impression and how I'd like your story to go. You can't operate by that. You're the only one who can think about what you should do. [...] when a person tells you what they want of you, they're not deciding for you. It's their opinion. Not your truth, got it?

I am seventy-nine years old. If I want dessert twice . . . I get dessert twice.

And maybe you’ll find out that life out there is good, that it suits you. Maybe you’ll find that thing you’re missing. Maybe not. What you will find, no question, is perspective. What that perspective is, I have no idea. But you’ll find one. Otherwise, you’ll only ever think about other people in the abstract. That’s a poisonous thing, thinking your way is all there is. The only way to really appreciate your way is to compare it to somebody else’s way.

time. ‘From the stars, came the ground,’ she said to the body. ‘From the ground, we stood. To the ground, we return.