Ancillary Sword

by Ann Leckie

  “I doubt we have anything to discuss.” Basnaaid was still frostily calm. “If you feel the need to tell me something, by all means do so now. What did you say your name was?” Outright rude, that was. But I knew why, I knew where this anger came from. Basnaaid was easier in her educated accent than Lieutenant Awn had ever been—she had begun practicing it earlier, for one thing, and I suspected her ear was better from the start. But it was still, to some degree, a cover. Like her sister, Basnaaid Elming was acutely aware of condescension and insult. Not without good reason.

  “My name is Breq Mianaai.” I managed not to choke on the house name the Lord of the Radch had imposed on me. “You won’t recognize it, I used another name when I knew your sister.” That name she’d have recognized. But I couldn’t give it. I was the ship your sister served on. I was the ancillaries she commanded, that served her. As far as anyone here knew, that ship had disappeared twenty years ago. And ships weren’t people, weren’t fleet captains or officers of any sort, didn’t invite anyone to tea. If I told her who I really was, she would doubt my sanity. Which might be a good thing, considering the next step, after the name, would be to tell her what had happened to her sister.

  “Mianaai.” Basnaaid’s tone was disbelieving.

  “As I said, it wasn’t my name at the time I knew your sister.”

  “Well.” She almost spat the word out. “Breq Mianaai. My sister was just, and proper. She never knelt to you, no matter what you may have thought, and none of us wants payment from you. None of us needs it. Awn didn’t need it, or want it.” In other words, if Lieutenant Awn had had any sort of relationship with me—knelt implied a sexual one—it hadn’t been because she’d been looking for some sort of benefit from it. When Inspector Supervisor Skaaiat had offered Basnaaid clientage for Lieutenant Awn’s sake, the implication had been that Awn and Skaaiat’s relationship had been based on the expectation of exchange—sex for social position. It was a common enough trade, but citizens moving from low on the ladder to noticeably higher were open to accusations that their promotions or assignments had been made in exchange for sexual favors, and not on merit.

  “You’re quite right, your sister never knelt, not to me, not to any other person, ever. Anyone who says she did, you will kindly send to me, and I will relieve them of their misapprehension.” It would really have been better to lead up to this, to have had tea and food and polite, indirect conversation beforehand, to feel out the approach, to take the edge off the foolishness of what I meant to suggest. But, I saw, Basnaaid would never have allowed it. I might as well state my business here and now. “The debt I owe your sister is far larger, and impossible to repay adequately, even if she were still alive. I can only offer the smallest token to you in her place. I propose to make you my heir.”

  She blinked, twice, unable at first to find any reply. “What?”

  The noise of the waterfall across the pond was paradoxically both distant and intrusive. Lieutenant Tisarwat and Citizen Sirix were frozen, I realized, staring at us, at Basnaaid and me. “I propose,” I repeated, “to make you my heir.”

  “I already have parents,” Basnaaid said, after three seconds of disbelieving silence.

  “They are excellent parents,” I acknowledged. “It’s not my intention to replace them. I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Whatever is your intention, then?”

  “To be certain,” I said, carefully, clearly, knowing I had failed in this, having come into this knowing I would fail, “for your sister’s sake, that you are safe and secure, and at all times have whatever you desire within your reach.”

  “Whatever I desire,” said Basnaaid, as deliberately as I had just spoken, “is, right now, for you to go away and never speak to me again.”

  I bowed low, an inferior to one of higher station. “As the citizen wishes.” I turned, and walked up to the path, away from the water, away from Sirix still knee-deep by the lilies, away from Basnaaid Elming standing, stiff and indignant, on the shore. Not even looking to see if Lieutenant Tisarwat followed.

  I had known. I had known what Basnaaid Elming’s reaction would be to my offer. But I had thought I would only tender a polite invitation this morning and have the confrontation itself later. Wrong. And now, I knew, Captain Hetnys was waiting in my apartments in the Undergarden, sweating in the warm, still air and stiffly, angrily refusing the tea Kalr Five had just offered her. Going into that meeting in my present mood would be dangerous, but there was, it seemed, no good way to avoid it.

  At the entrance to those rooms, Bo Nine standing at impassive attention just beyond the open door, Lieutenant Tisarwat—I had forgotten, between the waterside and here, that Lieutenant Tisarwat was with me—spoke. “Sir. Begging the fleet captain’s indulgence.”

  I stopped, without looking behind me. Reached out to Mercy of Kalr, who showed me a perplexing mix of emotions. Lieutenant Tisarwat was miserable as she had been all morning, but that misery was mixed in with an odd yearning—for what? And a completely new sort of elation that I had never seen in her. “Sir, permission to go back to the Gardens.” She wanted to go back to the Gardens? Now?

  I remembered that startling moment of pleasure when she’d seen the little fish in the pool, but, I realized, after that I’d paid her no attention whatever. I’d been too caught up in my encounter with Basnaaid. “Why?” I asked, blunt. Not, perhaps, the best way to respond, considering, but I was not at my best just this instant.

  For a moment a sort of nervous fear kept her from speaking, and then she said, “Sir, maybe I can talk to her. She didn’t tell me to never speak to her again.” As she spoke, that strange, hopeful elation flared bright and sharp, and with it something I’d seen in countless young, emotionally vulnerable lieutenants.

  Oh, no. “Lieutenant. You are not to go anywhere near the citizen Basnaaid Elming. I do not need you interfering in my affairs. Citizen Basnaaid certainly doesn’t need it.”

  It was as though I had struck Tisarwat. She nearly physically recoiled, but stopped herself, held herself still. Speechless, for a moment, with hurt and anger. Then she said, bitter complaint, “You aren’t even going to give me a chance!”

  “You aren’t even going to give me a chance, sir,” I corrected. Angry tears welled in her ridiculous lilac eyes. If she’d been any other seventeen-year-old lieutenant I’d have sent her on her way to be rejected by the object of her sudden infatuation, and then let her cry—oh, the volume of baby lieutenant tears my uniforms had absorbed, when I’d been a ship—and then poured her a drink or three. But Tisarwat wasn’t any other baby lieutenant. “Go to your quarters, Lieutenant, get a hold of yourself, and wash your face.” It was early yet for drinking, but she’d need time to get herself in hand. “After lunch you have leave to go out and get as drunk as you like. Better yet, get laid. There are plenty of more appropriate partners here.” Citizen Raughd might even be interested, but I didn’t say so. “You’ve been in Citizen Basnaaid’s presence a whole five minutes.” And saying that, it was even clearer how ridiculous this was. This wasn’t about Basnaaid, not really, but that only made me more determined to keep Tisarwat away from her.

  “You don’t understand!” Tisarwat cried.

  I turned to Bo Nine. “Bo. Take your officer to her quarters.”

  “Sir,” said Bo, and I turned and went into what served as the anteroom for our small apartments.

  When I was a ship, I had thousands of bodies. Except in extreme circumstances, if one of those bodies became tired or stressed I could give it a break and use another, the way you might switch hands. If one of them was injured badly enough, or ceased to function efficiently, my medics would remove it and replace it with another one. It was remarkably convenient.

  When I had been a single ancillary, one human body among thousands, part of the ship Justice of Toren, I had never been alone. I had always been surrounded by myself, and the rest of myself had always known if any particular body needed something—rest, food, touch, reassurance. An ancillary body m
ight feel momentarily overwhelmed, or irritable, or any emotion one might think of—it was only natural, bodies felt things. But it was so very small, when it was just one segment among the others, when, even in the grip of strong emotion or physical discomfort, that segment knew it was only one of many, knew the rest of itself was there to help.

  Oh, how I missed the rest of myself. I couldn’t rest or comfort one body while sending another to do my work, not anymore. I slept alone, mostly only mildly envying the common soldiers on Mercy of Kalr their small bunks where they slept all together, pressed warm and close. They weren’t ancillaries, it wasn’t the same, wouldn’t be, even if I’d abandoned any pretense to dignity and climbed in with them. I knew that, knew it would be so wholly insufficient that there was no point in wishing for it. But now, this moment, I wanted it so badly that if I had been aboard Mercy of Kalr I’d have done it, curled up among the sleeping Etrepas Ship showed me, and gone to sleep myself, no matter how insufficient it would be. It would be something, at least.

  A terrible, terrible thing, to deprive a ship of its ancillaries. To deprive an ancillary of its ship. Not, perhaps, as terrible as murdering human beings to make those ancillaries. But a terrible thing nonetheless.

  I didn’t have the luxury to consider it. I didn’t have another, less angry body to send into the meeting with Captain Hetnys. Didn’t have an hour, or two, to exercise, or meditate, or drink tea until I was calmer. I only had myself. “It will be all right, Fleet Captain,” said Mercy of Kalr in my ear, and for a moment I was overwhelmed with the sensation of Ship. The sleeping Etrepas, Lieutenant Ekalu half awake, happy and for once utterly relaxed—Seivarden in the bath, singing to herself, my mother said it all goes around, her Amaats, Medic, and my Kalrs, all in one jumbled, inundating moment. Then it was gone—I couldn’t hold it, not with only one body, one brain.

  I had thought that the pain of losing myself, of losing Lieutenant Awn, had—not healed, exactly, I didn’t think it would ever do that—but that it had receded to a tolerable, dull ache. But just seeing Basnaaid Elming had thrown me off-balance, and I had not handled it well. And had, as a result, not handled Lieutenant Tisarwat well, just now. I knew about the emotional upheavals of seventeen-year-old lieutenants. Had dealt with them in the past. And whatever Tisarwat had been, whoever she turned out to be, however ancient her memories or her sense of herself, her body was still seventeen, her reactions today very much those of someone in the last throes of adolescence. I had seen it, known it for what it was, and I ought to have responded more reasonably. “Ship,” I said, silently, “was I smug when I thought I’d sorted out Seivarden and Ekalu?”

  “Maybe just the tiniest bit, Fleet Captain.”

  “Sir,” said Kalr Five, who had come into the anteroom, all ancillary-like impassivity, “Captain Hetnys is in the dining room.” And did not add, she’s fretting, and beginning to be angry at being made to wait so long.

  “Thank you, Five.” Despite my permission earlier to go in shirtsleeves here in the Undergarden, she was still in her jacket. All my Mercy of Kalrs were, I saw, querying Ship. “You’ve offered her breakfast and tea?”

  “Yes, sir. She said she didn’t want anything.” A trace of disappointment there—no doubt she felt deprived of an opportunity to show off her dishes.

  “Right. I’ll go in, then.” I took a breath, did my best to clear both Basnaaid and Tisarwat from my mind, and went in to receive Captain Hetnys’s report.

  10

  Captain Hetnys had sent Mercy of Ilves on a survey of the outstations. She’d brought a few of her Atagaris ancillaries with her to Athoek Station, and her Var lieutenant and decade to run Security for the Undergarden.

  She tried to explain to me why she’d set Sword of Atagaris to watch a gate that led to a system of airless rocks, gas giants with icy moons, no inhabitants, and no other gates.

  “The Presger can travel without the gates, sir, they might…”

  “Captain. If the Presger decide to attack us, there will be nothing we can do about it.” The days when the Radch had commanded fleets huge enough to overwhelm entire systems were past. And even then, opposing the Presger would have been hopeless. It was the main reason Anaander Mianaai had finally agreed to a treaty. It was the reason people were still frightened of them. “And honestly, Captain, the biggest danger, for now, is going to be from Radchaai ships on one side or the other attempting to control or destroy resources another side might use. That planet downwell, for instance.” All that food. A base, if they could secure it. If I could. “And it’s possible Athoek will be left alone entirely. Certainly I don’t think anyone’s going to be able to muster anything like a real fleet, not for some time, if ever.” I didn’t think anyone could surprise us. A military ship could gate to within kilometers of the station or the planet, but I didn’t think it likely any would try. If someone came, we’d have time to watch them approach. “We should concentrate our defenses around this station, and this planet.”

  She didn’t like that, thought of an argument, but closed her mouth on it, unsaid. The question of where my authority came from, of where Captain Hetnys’s loyalties lay in this conflict, didn’t come up at all. There was no point pressing the issue, no advantage for me, or for her. If I was lucky, everyone else would ignore Athoek and it would never be an issue. But I wasn’t going to bet on that.

  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. They were drinking something strong and stinging—Tisarwat hadn’t decided if she liked it or not, but she seemed to be mostly enjoying herself. Piat, the daughter of the station administrator, a bit more animated than I’d seen her the evening before, had just said something vulgar and everyone was laughing. Raughd said, in an undertone that can’t have carried much past Tisarwat, who was sitting near both of them, “Aatr’s tits, Piat, you’re such a fucking ridiculous bore sometimes.”

  Tisarwat, where only Ship and I could see it, reacted with instant revulsion. “Piat,” she said, “I don’t think Citizen Raughd appreciates you. Come sit closer, I need someone to tell me amusing things.”

  The whole exchange, plus Piat’s hesitation and Raughd’s ostensibly amused reply—I was only joking, Lieutenant, don’t be so sensitive!—told me unpleasant things about their relationship. If they had been my officers, when I had been a ship, I’d have intervened in some way, or spoken to their senior lieutenant. I wondered for an instant at Station’s apparently not having done anything, and then it occurred to me that Raughd had perhaps been very, very careful about where she said what. Station couldn’t see into the Undergarden, and though everyone in that room was certainly wired for communications, they had probably switched their implants off. That was very possibly the whole purpose of carousing here rather than elsewhere.

  Below, in my own quarters, Kalr Five spoke. “Sir.” Trepidation behind her stolid exterior.

  “It’s all right,” called an unfamiliar voice from behind her, in the next room. “I’m all grown up, I’m not going to eat anyone!” The accent was an odd one, half well-educated Radchaai and half something else I couldn’t place, nothing like the accents I’d heard here so far.

  “Sir,” Kalr Five said again. “Translator Dlique.” She stumbled slightly over the oddness of the name.

  “Translator?” No one had mentioned that anyone from the Translators Office was in the system, and there was no reason why anyone should be. I queried Ship and saw
its memory of Kalr Five opening the door to a person in the loose, bright shirt and trousers people in the Undergarden wore—gloved, though, plain, stiff gray. No jewelry. No mention of a house name or of the division of the Translators Office she worked for, no hint of family affiliation or rank. I blinked the vision away. Rose. “Send her in.”

  Five stood aside, and Translator Dlique entered, smiling broadly. “Fleet Captain! How glad I am to see you. The governor’s residence is terribly boring. I’d much rather have stayed on my ship, but they said there was a hull breach and if I stayed I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I don’t know, it doesn’t seem like much, does it? Breathing?” She took a deep breath, gestured irritated indecision. “Air! It’s just stupid, really. I’d as soon do without, but they insisted.”

  “Translator.” I didn’t bow, as she had not. And a horrible suspicion occurred. “It would appear you have the advantage of me.”

  She drew her shoulders up, her eyes widening in astonishment. “Me! The advantage! You’re the one with all the soldiers.”

  The suspicion was growing into a certainty. This person certainly wasn’t Radchaai. Translator for one of the aliens the Radch dealt with, then. But not for the Geck or the Rrrrrr—I’d met translators for the Geck before, and I knew something about the humans who translated for the Rrrrrr, and this person didn’t seem to be either sort. And that odd accent. “I mean,” I said, “that you appear to know who I am, but I don’t know who you are.”

  She outright laughed. “Well, of course I know who you are. Everyone is talking about you. Well, not to me. I’m not supposed to know you’re here. I’m not supposed to leave the governor’s residence, either. But I don’t like being bored.”

  “I think you should tell me who you are, exactly.” But I knew. Or knew as much as I needed to know. This person was one of those humans the Presger had bred to talk to the Radch. Translator for the Presger. Disturbing company, Anaander Mianaai had said of them. And the governor knew she was on the station. So, I would bet, did Captain Hetnys. This was surely behind her so inexplicable fear that the Presger might arrive here suddenly. I wondered what was behind the fact that she hadn’t mentioned it to me.