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“Actually,” I said, “that has a certain poetry to it.”

“Don’t start, Cousin,” said
Sphene
. “I still haven’t entirely forgiven you for that. Which I suppose is only fair, because I’m here to make an apology myself.”

“Something’s just come out of the Ghost Gate,” said Seivarden and Station at nearly the same moment. Seivarden, obviously, speaking for
Mercy of Kalr
.

“That would be me,” said
Sphene
. “I was already halfway
through the intersystem gate when you arrived in the Ghost System. I did advise you to play for time, you may recall. I just wasn’t entirely truthful about how much time would be involved.”

“And,” said Seivarden, frowning, alarm in her voice, “Fleet Captain Uemi has arrived in the system. With three Swords and two Justices. And also”—a bit of relief—“an offer of assistance.”

“Tell Fleet Captain Uemi,” I said, “that we appreciate her offer but are in no need of assistance. And let her know that while we understand her intentions are good, the next ships that gate into our territory without warning or invitation will be fired on. Oh, and let our cousins know about the republic.”

“
Provisional
republic,” corrected
Sphene
.

“The provisional republic,” I amended. “They can be citizens or not, as they wish, but I imagine their status under the treaty—pending the outcome of the conclave—remains unaffected. And let Uemi know that those ships are of course free to associate with her if they wish, but if she should force them in any way, there will be potential problems with the treaty.”

“Done,” said Seivarden. “Though if I were in your place I’d also have advised her to get her ass in gear a little quicker next time.”

“It’s called diplomacy, Lieutenant,” I said.

19

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.

Tisarwat and I took the shuttle back to
Mercy of Kalr
, with Translator Zeiat, the suspension pod containing Translator Dlique’s body, and a crate of fish sauce nearly as large as the pod. I could not imagine all of it fitting into Translator Zeiat’s tiny courier ship, not with the translator in it, too. But the translator just shoved it all through the airlock with no apparent difficulty and then turned to say her goodbyes.
“This really has been interesting, Fleet Captain, far more interesting than I’d expected.”

“What had you expected, Translator?” I asked.

“Well, you recall, I expected to be Dlique! I’m
so
glad I’m not. And even when I realized I was actually Zeiat, well, you know, Fleet Captain, even Zeiat isn’t really anybody. Meeting with a new Significant species, calling a conclave—that’s the sort of thing they usually send
somebody
to do, and here I am, just Zeiat.”

“So might you become somebody when you return with the news, then?”

“Goodness, no, Fleet Captain. That’s not the way it works. But it’s kind of you to think so. No, somebody will come, sometime soon, to talk to you about the conclave.”

“And the medical correctives?” I reminded her. I had no confidence that any of the remaining bits of Radch space would deal with us anytime soon.

“Yes, yes, someone will be along about those, too. Quite soon, I’m sure. But really, you know, Fleet Captain, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to use quite so many of them as you do.”

“I plan to cut back,” I told her.

“Good, good. Always remember, Fleet Captain—internal organs belong
inside
your body. And blood belongs inside your veins.” And she went through the airlock and was off.

Medic restored my connection with
Mercy of Kalr
. Such a relief, to find Kalr Five in my quarters, when I reached, grumbling to Twelve. “I did tell her I ought to pack something for her, but no, she knew better and all she took was that horrible old tea set. And now it’s
Pack me some clothes, if you please, I’ve been wearing the same shirt for three days
. Well
she’d have had clean shirts if she’d listened to me.” Twelve said nothing, only made a sympathetic noise. “And now it’s back to the station for
important meetings
. And you know she’d have nothing decent to serve her tea in if I didn’t see to it!”

Tisarwat, in Medic’s tiny office. Tired. Feelings a muddle, but mostly Tisarwat on a good day. A little buzz of tension, but she was relieved to be back on
Mercy of Kalr
.

“What
Sword of Gurat
’s medic was giving you,” Medic was saying, “was similar in some ways to what I’ve been giving you, but not the same. How did things feel? Different? The same? Better? Not?”

“Mostly the same?” Tisarwat ventured. “I think something was off? A little better some ways, not as good other ways. I don’t know. Everything’s… everything’s strange right now.”

“Well,” said Medic, “
Sword of Gurat
sent us your data. I’ll take a closer look at it and we’ll see where we go from there. Meanwhile, you should get some rest.”

“How can I possibly? There’s an entire government to be set up. I have to get back to the station. I have to get into some of those meetings the fleet captain is holding. I have to…”

“Rest, Lieutenant. These are
meetings
you’re talking about—nothing’s going to actually get done for weeks. If then. They’ll probably spend the first month just setting an agenda.”

“The agenda is important!” Tisarwat insisted. I would have to keep a tight rein on her—I wanted her experience, and her talent for politics, but I didn’t want Anaander Mianaai—the tendencies Tisarwat had gotten from Anaander Mianaai, surely part of her desperate urge to be in those meetings—to have any sort of significant influence over what we were trying to build here. And besides, if she was left unchecked we were liable to end up with an Autarchy of Two Systems, ruled by Lieutenant Tisarwat. “The fleet captain’s traveled a
lot
outside the Radch and she has some odd ideas. If nobody stops her we’re likely to end up with system official appointments determined by the results of a ball game! Or chosen by lot! Or
popular elections
!”

“Be serious, Lieutenant,” Medic insisted. “Agendas can always be changed or added to, and besides it’ll be months before there’s even a hint of anything actually happening. You won’t miss much if you take a few days of rest. Stand your watches. Let your Bos take care of you. They want to very badly, particularly Three. And in fact, Ekalu could really use some leave. Seivarden is still on the station, and Fleet Captain’s going back in a few hours. It would be good if Ekalu could go with her, but someone has to look after the ship.”

It wasn’t only Anaander who had had a hand in making Tisarwat. I saw the tiny stab of excitement at the prospect of being in actual command of the ship, even if only for a few days, even if it wasn’t going anywhere and nothing was happening. “Fleet Captain said I could change my eyes if I came back.” As though it followed logically from what Medic had just said.

“All right.” I could see that Medic was both surprised and not surprised. Glad to hear it, and not. “Do you have a color in mind?”

“Brown. Just brown.”

“Lieutenant, do you know how many shades of brown there are? How many kinds of brown eyes?” No reply. “Think about it for a while. There’s no rush. And besides, I kind of like your eyes the way they are. I think a lot of us do.”

“I don’t think Fleet Captain does,” said Tisarwat.

“I think you’re mistaken,” Medic replied. “But it hardly matters if she does or not. They’re not Fleet Captain’s eyes.”

“Medic.” Tisarwat, anguished. “She called me
darling child
.”

“Yes, of course she did,” said Medic, rising from her seat.
“Why don’t you go get your breakfast, and then go stand your watch, and we’ll talk about eyes this evening.”

The next day I was back on the station. In a meeting. In a clean shirt (Kalr Five still complaining about it, to Ten this time), that priceless white porcelain tea set on the table (Kalr Five complaining to Ten about that as well, radiating satisfaction the while).
Sphene
to my right, Kalr Three to my left, representing
Mercy of Kalr. Sword of Atagaris
and
Sword of Gurat
across from me, along with Station Administrator Celar for Station. “For the most part,” I was saying, “to begin with, it will be much easier to leave most of the existing institutions in place, and make changes as we go. I have some misgivings about the magistracies, though, and the way evaluations and sentences are handed out. Currently the entire system is based on the assumption that every citizen can appeal to the Lord of Mianaai, who can be depended on to dispense perfect justice.”

“Well, that certainly won’t work,” said
Sword of Atagaris
.

“If it ever did,” I agreed. “I think it’s an important place to start.”

“Clearly, Cousin,” said
Sphene
, “it’s something that interests you. By all means, enjoy your hobby. But all these questions—who gets to be a citizen, who gets to be in charge, who makes what decisions, how everyone gets fed—don’t matter to me, so long as it all works and I get the things I need. Do whatever you like to the magistrates, shoot them into the sun for all I care. Just don’t bore me with it now. What I want to talk about is ancillaries.”

“Today’s meeting,” said Kalr Three, beside me, “is supposed to be about deciding what things need to be talked
about in the coming weeks. We can and absolutely should put that on the list.”

“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.”

“So do I,” said
Sword of Atagaris
. “By all means put the magistracies and re-education high on the list for a future meeting, and let
Justice of Toren
draft a thing or form a committee, or whatever will make you happy, Cousin.” Doubtless it didn’t like using that address for me, it still didn’t like me, but the question of my being fleet captain had become highly fraught. Certainly Captain Hetnys didn’t want to accord me the rank. But she was aboard
Sword of Atagaris
at the moment—Station wouldn’t allow her or her lieutenants to set foot on it. “But right now,”
Sword of Atagaris
continued, “let’s talk about ancillaries.”

“All right,” I agreed. “If you insist. Tell me, Ships, where do you intend to get ancillaries?” No one answered. “
Sphene
has—I do believe this is correct, Cousin—
Sphene
has a store of unconnected humans, some of whom it purchased from outsystem slavers before Athoek was annexed, some of whom”—looking directly at
Sword of Atagaris
—“are illegally obtained citizens of the Radch. I am not asking—I will not ask—for anyone to dispose of already-connected ancillaries. But as far as I’m concerned, any unconnected humans aboard any of us are citizens of the Two Systems, unless they themselves declare they aren’t. Do we intend to make ancillaries of citizens? And if they are not our citizens, then making them into ancillaries has implications for the treaty, does it not?”

Silence. And not just because we were speaking Radchaai, which made the word
citizen
an ambiguous one, I was sure.
Then
Sword of Gurat
, picking up the graceful white bowl in front of it, said, “This tea is very good.”

I picked up my own bowl. “It’s called Daughter of Fishes. It’s handpicked and manufactured by the members of a cooperative association of workers that owns the plantation.” That was an awkward phrase, in Radchaai. It worked better in Delsig. I wasn’t entirely sure it would make sense to anyone else in the room. But the contracts transferring the property had been registered early that morning. The matter of the ruined temple across the lake from the fields was still under discussion, but would be much more easily dealt with now the estate was no longer under Fosyf Denche’s control.

“What about cloning our existing ancillaries?” asked
Sword of Atagaris
.

“The way Anaander does?” I asked. “I suppose that’s a possibility. We have the ability to clone, of course, but we don’t have the tech she uses to hook the clones all up from the start. I imagine we could develop it, but do consider, Cousins, that then you’d have to raise those cloned parts of yourself. Do you have the facilities on board for infants? Is that something you’d want?”

Again, silence.

“What if someone
wanted
to be an ancillary?” asked
Sphene
, then. “Don’t look at me like that, Cousin. It might happen.”

“Have you ever met anyone who wanted to be an ancillary?” I asked. “I’ve had quite a lot of ancillaries in my time, far more than all of you in this room put together I would think, and not one single one of them actually
wanted
it.”

“Anything that can happen will happen,” pointed out
Sword of Gurat
.

“Fine,” I said. “The day you find someone who actually wants to be an ancillary, we’ll talk about it. Fair enough?”
No answer. “And in the meantime, consider storing some of your existing ancillaries and running with a part-human crew. You get to choose them, of course. Take on whom you like. It’s nice to have a lot of humans on board, actually.” As a troop carrier, I’d had dozens of lieutenants, where Swords and Mercies had only a few. “Ones you like, anyway.”

“It is,” agreed Kalr Three. No, agreed
Mercy of Kalr
.