certain she hadn’t heard me correctly.
“I want to kill Anaander Mianaai,” I repeated.
“Anaander Mianaai,” she said, bitterly, “has thousands of bodies in hundreds of locations. You can’t possibly kill him. Certainly not with one gun.”
“I still want to try.”
“You’re insane. Or is that even possible? Aren’t all Radchaai brainwashed?”
It was a common misconception. “Only criminals, or people who aren’t functioning well, are reeducated. Nobody really cares what you think, as long as you do what you’re supposed to.”
She stared, dubious. “How do you define ‘not functioning well’?”
I made an indefinite,
not my problem
gesture with my free hand. Though perhaps it
was
my problem. Perhaps that question did concern me now, insofar as it might very well concern Seivarden. “I’m going to take my hand out of my coat,” I said. “And then I’m going to go to sleep.”
Strigan said nothing, only twitched one gray eyebrow.
“If I found you, Anaander Mianaai certainly can,” I said. We were speaking Strigan’s language. What gender had she assigned to the Lord of the Radch? “He hasn’t, yet, possibly because he is currently preoccupied with other matters, and for reasons that ought to be clear to you, he is likely hesitant to delegate in this affair.”
“I’m safe, then.” She sounded more convinced of that than she could possibly be.
Seivarden came noisily out of the bathroom and sank back onto her pallet, hands trembling, breathing quick and shallow.
“I’m taking my hand out of my coat now,” I said, and then did that. Slowly. Empty.
Strigan sighed and lowered her gun. “I probably couldn’t shoot you anyway.” Because she was sure I was Radchaai military, and hence armored. Of course, if she could take me unawares, or fire before I could extend my armor, she could indeed shoot me.
And of course, she had that gun. Though she might not have it near to hand. “Can I have my icon back?”
She frowned, and then remembered she was still holding it. “
Your
icon.”
“It belongs to me,” I clarified.
“That’s quite a resemblance,” she said, looking at it again. “Where’s it from?”
“Very far away.” I held out my hand. She returned it, and one-handed I brushed the trigger and the image folded into itself, and the base closed into its gold disk.
Strigan looked over at Seivarden intently, and frowned. “Your stray is having some anxiety.”
“Yes.”
Strigan shook her head, frustrated or exasperated, and went into her infirmary. She returned, went to where Seivarden sat, leaned over, and reached for her.
Seivarden started, shoving herself up and back, grabbing Strigan’s wrist in a move I knew was meant to break it. But Seivarden wasn’t what she had once been. Dissipation and what I suspected was malnutrition had taken a toll. Strigan left her arm in Seivarden’s grasp, and with her other hand plucked a small white tab out of her own fingers and stuck it to Seivarden’s forehead. “I don’t feel sorry for you,” she said, in Radchaai. “It’s just that I’m a doctor.” Seivarden looked at her with an unaccountable expression of horror. “Let go of me.”
“Let go, Seivarden, and lie down.” I said, sharply. She stared two seconds more at Strigan, but then did as she was told.
“I’m not taking him as my patient,” Strigan said to me, as Seivarden’s breathing slowed and her muscles slackened. “It isn’t more than first aid. And I don’t want him panicking and breaking my things.”
“I’m going to sleep now,” I answered. “We can talk more in the morning.”
“It
is
morning.” But she didn’t argue further.
She wouldn’t be foolish enough to search my person while I slept. She would know how dangerous that would be.
She wouldn’t shoot me in my sleep either, though it would be a simple and effective way to be rid of me. Asleep, I would be an easy target for a bullet, unless I extended my armor now and left
“I want to kill Anaander Mianaai,” I repeated.
“Anaander Mianaai,” she said, bitterly, “has thousands of bodies in hundreds of locations. You can’t possibly kill him. Certainly not with one gun.”
“I still want to try.”
“You’re insane. Or is that even possible? Aren’t all Radchaai brainwashed?”
It was a common misconception. “Only criminals, or people who aren’t functioning well, are reeducated. Nobody really cares what you think, as long as you do what you’re supposed to.”
She stared, dubious. “How do you define ‘not functioning well’?”
I made an indefinite,
not my problem
gesture with my free hand. Though perhaps it
was
my problem. Perhaps that question did concern me now, insofar as it might very well concern Seivarden. “I’m going to take my hand out of my coat,” I said. “And then I’m going to go to sleep.”
Strigan said nothing, only twitched one gray eyebrow.
“If I found you, Anaander Mianaai certainly can,” I said. We were speaking Strigan’s language. What gender had she assigned to the Lord of the Radch? “He hasn’t, yet, possibly because he is currently preoccupied with other matters, and for reasons that ought to be clear to you, he is likely hesitant to delegate in this affair.”
“I’m safe, then.” She sounded more convinced of that than she could possibly be.
Seivarden came noisily out of the bathroom and sank back onto her pallet, hands trembling, breathing quick and shallow.
“I’m taking my hand out of my coat now,” I said, and then did that. Slowly. Empty.
Strigan sighed and lowered her gun. “I probably couldn’t shoot you anyway.” Because she was sure I was Radchaai military, and hence armored. Of course, if she could take me unawares, or fire before I could extend my armor, she could indeed shoot me.
And of course, she had that gun. Though she might not have it near to hand. “Can I have my icon back?”
She frowned, and then remembered she was still holding it. “
Your
icon.”
“It belongs to me,” I clarified.
“That’s quite a resemblance,” she said, looking at it again. “Where’s it from?”
“Very far away.” I held out my hand. She returned it, and one-handed I brushed the trigger and the image folded into itself, and the base closed into its gold disk.
Strigan looked over at Seivarden intently, and frowned. “Your stray is having some anxiety.”
“Yes.”
Strigan shook her head, frustrated or exasperated, and went into her infirmary. She returned, went to where Seivarden sat, leaned over, and reached for her.
Seivarden started, shoving herself up and back, grabbing Strigan’s wrist in a move I knew was meant to break it. But Seivarden wasn’t what she had once been. Dissipation and what I suspected was malnutrition had taken a toll. Strigan left her arm in Seivarden’s grasp, and with her other hand plucked a small white tab out of her own fingers and stuck it to Seivarden’s forehead. “I don’t feel sorry for you,” she said, in Radchaai. “It’s just that I’m a doctor.” Seivarden looked at her with an unaccountable expression of horror. “Let go of me.”
“Let go, Seivarden, and lie down.” I said, sharply. She stared two seconds more at Strigan, but then did as she was told.
“I’m not taking him as my patient,” Strigan said to me, as Seivarden’s breathing slowed and her muscles slackened. “It isn’t more than first aid. And I don’t want him panicking and breaking my things.”
“I’m going to sleep now,” I answered. “We can talk more in the morning.”
“It
is
morning.” But she didn’t argue further.
She wouldn’t be foolish enough to search my person while I slept. She would know how dangerous that would be.
She wouldn’t shoot me in my sleep either, though it would be a simple and effective way to be rid of me. Asleep, I would be an easy target for a bullet, unless I extended my armor now and left
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