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The sixth time she nearly lost Breq, Seivarden was in the Gardens on Athoek Station. The humid, perfumed air was too warm for her comfort. Sweat was dripping down the back of her neck, under the collar of her heavy dark uniform, and she was trying not to lose her temper. “Ambassador,” she said, aware she was dragging her vowels too long, her accent thick and heavy with sarcastic superiority, “I really have no authority on this station. You'll have to take your concerns to Administrator Celar. As I have told you. Twice now.”
The Gerentate diplomat opened her mouth to complain, but that was when the explosion happened.
Just a burst of light, at first, outside the clear transparency of the dome, strangely flat against the black of the void, and around her people were staring open-mouthed, but Seivarden was already grabbing the ambassador and pulling her to the ground. “Down,” she shouted, “Grab onto something if you can,” and then the wave of debris hit.
It was on her hands and knees on the ground, one arm on the ambassador's back, the dirt-flecked false marble blurring in and out of focus before her face, listening to the sounds of crashes and screams and waiting to find out if there had been a pressure breach and they were all about to die- it was only then that she had time to process, time to realize what she'd just witnessed. She knew what heat shield breaches looked like, was probably the only human on the station who did. She'd seen the death of Sword of Nathtas, that searing light the last thing she'd known before waking a millenia later.
“Ship!” she shouted. The Gerentate ambassador rolled on her side, stared at Seivarden with wide-eyed fear. Nothing from Mercy of Kalr. “Station!”
“No hull breaches I can detect, Lieutenant, and no casualties. Calculations suggest there may be a secondary wave of shrapnel, but shielding should hold. I cannot observe anything outside this station, or make contact with any ship in the system. I suspect some kind of interfering radiation from the explosion.”
Seivarden had never heard of anything like that, and it helped cement her certainty that this hadn't been an accident. Whatever it was. Whatever had happened out there. She took her hand from where it rested on the ambassador's side, and cautiously pushed to her feet, staring desperately out into the void. But of course there was nothing to see, except the yellow circle of Athoek's sun. All the ships were- or were supposed to be- a safe distance from the station, too far to be visible. Except in death.
“Lieutenant,” the ambassador demanded from the floor, “what the hell just happened-”
“Shut up,” Seivarden said, distantly. “Station, you know, don't you. Which one it was.”
A hesitation, then the voice in her ear, quiet, almost gentle. “Yes, Lieutenant. Visuals from inside suggest the event originated at the last known location of Justice of Amaat.”
The flagship of the Radch navy, the largest, most valuable ship, bearing thousands of ancillaries and many bodies of the Lord of the Radch, with a roster of officers composed of the daughters of the empire's highest families. A terrible loss to Anaander Mianaai, but perhaps a calculated one, that she'd deemed worth it, to in one stroke remove high level politicians from half the sector's independent governments, and most of the Republic of Two Systems' human rulers, and one who was not human but easier to be rid of than a many-bodied ship-
Surely not. Surely no splinter of Anaander would provoke war with the Presger. Because that was bound to happen, no matter what the cause of the explosion. And if the Presger chose to resume preying on humanity, they were all dead.
Seivarden couldn't bring herself to care.
Her throat was moving, she was mumbling something, mouthing a single word over and over- Ship Ship Ship Ship- no response, there would be no answer until the situation with the interference changed, it was the first time in two years that Mercy of Kalr hadn't been just a hand gesture away, and now, when Seivarden needed her ship most it wasn't there-
The ambassador was shouting at her, high and hysterical. She was aware of the sound, but it was distorted, as though coming from behind a door. “When will that shrapnel hit?” she asked, and Station replied, “Now.”
This time the effect was less of a bludgeon and more of a push as the station's armor displaced the impact energy of millions of pieces of metal. The floor rocked, throwing Seivarden back, but she managed to wrap a hand around a railing and hold on, the diplomat beside her gripping the bar of the rail with bare white knuckles.
The station settled.
She pushed away from the rail. The tremors seemed over, and the gravity must still be in place, because she could see her feet touching the ground, even if she couldn't quite feel them through a rising white wall of static. Her arms had somehow crossed her chest, her hands were clawing at the sleeves of her uniform jacket. She couldn't feel them. She couldn't feel anything.
“Station,” someone said. It must have been her, because the diplomat was still clinging to the rail, eyes screwed shut. “Casualties.”
“Minor injuries only, Lieutenant. Repair crews are assessing the damage, but shielding appears to have held.”
“Is everyone on this level safe?”
“For the moment, Lieutenant.” Station was calm and soothing, as it had been designed to be. It was meant to reassure desperate terrified people during disasters. Seivarden leaned her mind against that steadiness.
“Are you in contact with Administrator Celar?”
“I am.” A pause. “She has initiated emergency lockdown procedures.” Seivarden stood, eyes scanning the citizens and foreign visitors cowering or running in terror all through the garden. “Security teams will handle the lockdown,” Station told her, almost admonishing. “You are in command of all military forces in my communication range.”
“Me?” Seivarden laughed, choked and harsh, because if she focused on talking, she didn't have to think about anything else. “The captains won't like that.”
“They are welcome to make a complaint,” Athoek Station said, primly.
Seivarden put a hand on the Gerentate diplomat's back, not knowing if she were being hard or gentle. “Follow the light strips,” she shouted. The person stared at her, apparently not comprehending.
“Lieutenant,” Station said in her ear. “Security will handle evacuations. You should head to the docks. The ships within range are likely to send shuttles once they realize we cannot communicate.”
Seivarden shook her head. “Right,” she said, and again to herself, “Right.”
Two people met her at the archway to the docks. After a moment Seivarden placed them- the brown-jacketed figure a Sword of Atagaris ancillary, its uniform denoting the Var decade, and the person next to them in plain rough extruded clothing she remembered as one of Sphene's bodies. Of course both faces were ancillary-blank, but the fact that they were here at all, not just waiting for an update from Station, spoke to their levels of anxiety.
Of course, Seivarden realized. They were cut off from themselves. Sphene must be more used to that, split as it often was between two systems, but Sphene, the ship itself, had been out there, its ego finally overcoming its antisocial habits.
At least her misery would have company.
The fifth time, Seivarden hadn't taken more than a few steps out of the governor's office when a smooth voice in her ear said, "Lieutenant."
She was already shaking from rage and despair, and adding relief to the mix threatened to fold her legs beneath her. She leaned against the cool station wall and counted out one exhale. Then she managed to say, quietly, "Ship. Did you see."
"I have collected and processed all your recorded data," Mercy of Kalr assured her.
“Fleet Captain,” Seivarden began, and then found she couldn't continue.
“Fleet Captain is aware of the general course of events,” Ship told her, voice as smooth and steady as ever.
Inhale for three. Exhale for six. “Bo Nine and Lieutenant Tisarwat,” she asked.
A pause, just long enough to ratchet up Seivarden's panic, mess up her breathing count. “I am not currently aware of either of them,” Ship admitted. “However, this was a part of the plan, and should not be cause for alarm.”
Inhale for four. Exhale for eight. Six, seven, eight. “It doesn't matter, does it,” Seivarden said. “I fucked it all up. She's won.”
“Lieutenant, you should not blame yourself. There was never a high chance of success.”
“Breq would have done it,” Seivarden said, the words which had stuck in her throat before now pouring out so fast her jaw ached. “Breq blew up two ships just by shooting a gun at them. Breq saved Omaugh Palace by blowing up her own shuttle. She jumped off a bridge-” She was crying again.
“Lieutenant,” Ship said, and then, silently, just words in the center of her vision- Seivarden.
“Can't you just leave,” Seivarden pleaded, “just take her and leave, disappear through the Ghost Gate, just leave us and take her and Ekalu and the others back to Omaugh. We'll be fine, she's got no reason to kill us, and Administrator Celar can protect us.” She was not at all certain about that, and Ship probably knew it, but it didn't matter. Only one thing mattered.
You know I can't.
“They'll kill her,” Seivarden said. “They'll dispose of her like she's a thing. They'll kill you too, if they can. You saw those AI cores.”
No. Fleet Captain will come up with a plan. She always does.
“This is Breq we're talking about,” Seivarden said. “Her plans are usually fucking awful.”
No reply.
Seivarden managed a few more meters down the concourse before the sound of footsteps made their way into her head. A moment later Administrator Celar was at her side, a gentle hand on Seivarden's back. “Lieutenant, I am so sorry,” she said, softly.
The tears came harder, then, Seivarden feeling her face burn red at the breathtakingly beautiful and competent Administrator taking such open pity on her. She hadn't felt this wretchedly weak since the doctor's house on Nilt, when her jaw had still been swollen from Breq's fist. Seivarden leaned a little into the pressure of Celar's hand and tried to forget about the effort it took to keep walking, tried to think only of Nilt, the awful tacky cold house, her first pathetic attempts to make breakfast for Breq, to be useful.
To Seivarden's foggy surprise, Administrator Celar did not leave her at Medical, but courteously asked Seivarden's cheerful medic for the use of one of the official terminals, which the medic was happy to grant her. She stayed, tapping into her terminal, while the station medic tsked at Seivarden and dosed her with something different and stronger than before. Seivarden let herself float a little on the wave of the medication, but she kept most of herself tethered, ready in case Ship spoke in her ear, ready in case Breq had need of her, in case she could somehow still be of use.
After a while, she said aloud, “Ship?”
No voice, just words, across her vision: Yes
Seivarden frowned. “What's going on? Does Fleet Captain have a plan yet?”
Mercy of Kalr didn't answer. Seivarden's fingers dug furrows in the medical bed's sheets. She could float away right now. She didn't have to deal with this. She was on medical leave from feeling bad. She had permission.
“Lieutenant,” Administrator Celar said, softly. She was standing by Seivarden's shoulder. Seivarden had to tilt her head to look up at her. Her perfect face was pinched with worry and regret. “I'm sorry,” she said. “The Lord of Mianaai asks that you and your soldiers be present in airlock one in an hour.”
Seivarden shook her head, not understanding.
Celar's face creased further, into lines of deep unhappiness. “If I understand correctly,” she said, “the Fleet Captain has agreed to exchange herself for Station's safety and your return.”
Seivarden nodded. She watched her fingers twitch, like they wanted to clench into fists, but weren't coordinated enough at the moment to manage it. “Ship,” she said, calmly.
Nothing.
“Fuck,” Seivarden said, and put her head between her knees so she could cry again, chest heaving, shoulders shaking.
“I've contacted your soldiers,” Celar said, still soft. “They will meet you outside the airlock.”
Station Medic came into the room. “All right,” she said, “what's happened now?”
Celar explained. Station Medic's cheerful face changed sharply into harsh lines of anger and disgust. “For fuck's sake,” she said, the expletive brief and explosive. She went to Seivarden's side. Seivarden lifted her head, obediently rolled up her sleeve for an injection. The medic hesitated. “You really ought to be resting,” she said, “not going into another stressful situation. I can knock you out more, or I can wake you up a little. Both will make you crash in a few hours.”
“Wake me up,” Seivarden said. “I'd like to be able to walk to the airlock on my own, thank you.”
In her ear, Athoek Station said, its calm pleasant AI's voice somehow conveying deep anger, “She shouldn't be doing this. The lord of Mianaai will not keep her promises.”
“No,” Seivarden said. “She won't.” She would kill Station in any case, and most residents would not think to care, not until ancillaries started shooting citizens.
“My guess,” Administrator Celar said, “is that Fleet Captain Breq is making a play for time. Which leads me to wonder what it is she hopes will be happening here.”
A good question. Seivarden hadn't let herself wonder about Tisarwat's mission. She doubted she could put the pieces together even if she tried. Breq kept too many secrets, and Seivarden was not very good at noticing clues. Tisarwat was still alive, that had been clear from what Anaander Mianaai had said, and perhaps she still had a chance of success. Seivarden couldn't think of what that success might be.
“I'll walk with you to the airlock,” Celar said, as Seivarden stood up.
“No, thank you,” Seivarden said, hearing her voice, still hoarse from shouting at Anaander Mianaai, slip into its haughtiest, most aristocratic tone. “I prefer to go alone.”
“If that's what you wish,” Celar said, acquiescing gracefully, concern all over her features.
“Station will tell you if I fall over on the concourse,” Seivarden said. “Thank you, both of you, for everything you've done for me. For Station. I hope I'll see you again.”
Celar looked away. Medic handed Seivarden a paper bowl of cold, cheap tea. “Thank you,” Seivarden said again, and drank. The liquid was cool and soothing in her throat. When she crumpled the damp paper, she noticed that her muscles were beginning to obey her again.
Ten steps down the corridor, she said, again, “Ship?”
There was no response for over a minute, and Seivarden had given up on getting one when words flashed redly, overlaying her view of the wide metal corridor and padded white walls. I couldn't stop her. I should have. I didn't know what to do. She's going to DIE. I'll kill them all. I couldn't stop her. I don't know what to do. I'm sorry.
Seivarden couldn't bite her tongue fast enough to catch her automatic hissed, “Shit.” She couldn't panic, Ship would feel it and it would feed Ship's panic, and she could not, absolutely could not, fall down now the way she had the previous night, not with her Amaats and Breq and Ship all needing her to hold it together.
The concourse was nearly empty, with no sign of the protest line. Seivarden wondered at that until she focused on a newscasting screen, Anaander's young, tired face explaining the terms of her deal with Breq. She was still calling her “the ancillary,” Seivarden noted, filing this away as another item that would have to be answered for. But the absence of civilians made sense now. Apparently Athoek's citizens had not wanted to be caught in the middle of whatever storm would result. Seivarden couldn't blame them.
When she approached the airlock interior bay, a Sword of Atagaris ancillary appeared to escort her into a waiting room. It was blank in face and body, no sign that their previous brief exchange of words had altered anything. She considered saying something scathing to it, but couldn't think of any comment that wouldn't be extremely hypocritical, considering that she was after all only here because of her captain, and she probably wouldn't act any differently in Sword of Atagaris's position. And then it wasn't relevant because Two and Four were in the next room, standing ancillary-straight, the blankness of their faces breaking into nervous relief as they saw Seivarden. Another Atagaris ancillary stood by the door.
“Sir,” Two said, and then stopped, as Seivarden shocked herself and probably both of them too, putting a hand on Two's left shoulder and Four's right and squeezing briefly.
“You're both damn good soldiers,” she said, throat tight. “You deserved a better officer, but I suppose everything happens as Amaat wills.”
“Sir,” Two said again, quick and choked. Four just nodded. Seivarden tried to make herself smile, but she had no idea if it worked or not.
“Mercy of Kalr's shuttle has docked,” Station said, over the room's comm system. “The fleet captain and her guests have disembarked.”
Guests? No time to process that. One ancillary pressed the wall panel to open the door to the airlock bay. The other gestured at Seivarden and her Amaats with its gun. Seivarden didn't need to be herded. She exhaled, long, forced her feet to bring her into the bay at a tight walk instead of a run.
Breq looked the same as she had a week ago. Well, she was upright, which was a change, and perhaps looked a little less dead.
“Breq,” Seivarden said, the short word reverberating on her tongue, and she wanted to say it over and over, wanted to shout it in Anaander Mianaai's face, Breq, Breq, Breq- “I fucked up.”
Breq frowned at her, and Seivarden trembled. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She never wanted to stop looking at Breq, at that slight frown, the little crease in her eyebrows, she wanted to memorize every tiny detail, in case-
In case-
The fourth time, Seivarden conveniently managed to be sedated through most of the excitement, thanks to a well-timed breakdown. She drifted in and out of consciousness in Medical, half-aware of following slow, clear instructions as Medic did various things to her implants, mixed up with memories of stumbling off her cot and lurching to the bath or the sink, trailed by an anxious Amaat Two. Mercy of Kalr was with her the entire time, murmuring in her ear, “The doorway is to the left, Lieutenant,” or “We will be entering gate space in thirty seconds, Lieutenant; please sit down,” or just humming, a note or two like light finger-touches to the back of Seivarden's neck, tiny reminders that she was not alone.
The last time they lurched in and out of gate space, Seivarden was present enough to notice Medic responding to a prompt from Ship, unclipping one of the wheeled cots and pushing it out into the corridor, movements professional as ever but tight with tension. “What's happening,” Seivarden murmured, words slurring. Ship had no trouble understanding, and told her, “The captain has been injured, but we have her, and she is not in current danger.”
Seivarden expected to feel a rush of panic, but the feeling never came. “Thank you, Ship,” she said, and yawned, and lay back down on her cot, pulling the thin sheet over her bare skin. “How's Ekalu doing?”
“Lieutenant Ekalu is understandably stressed, but is carrying out her duties admirably,” said the voice in her ear.
“Good,” Seivarden said, closing her eyes and smiling a little. It was just as well, then, that Ekalu was in command, and Seivarden was here in Medical, where she couldn't panic and fuck things up for everyone. She was good here. She was calm.
The panic did come, an hour later, when Seivarden staggered across the infirmary towards the bath and nearly collided with Medic, who was wheeling a table with a tray on it, containing bloodstained externals and- a severed human leg, or most of one, cleanly amputated, fragments of bone piercing the skin at strange angles-
Seivarden stared dumbly for three entire seconds before she realized that she wasn't just looking at any severed leg. This was Breq's leg, she recognized the skin tone even underneath the blistering vacuum burns, she recognized the dark wiry hair and hard thick muscles, the faint white traces of old scars, the pale short clipped nails on the well calloused foot, all just useless meat and keratin now, and Seivarden wondered if that was what ancillary bodies were to ships, just bits of dead meat-
"Amaat's flaming arse," Medic swore, shoving the cart aside to grab Seivarden by the elbows. "Where the hell are your minders? I gave strict instructions that you shouldn't be out of bed!"
From the wall, Ship said, "I believe they were swept up in the general excitement, sir."
"Useless," Medic sighed.
The pit had opened up in Seivarden's stomach again, and she held herself still in Medic's grip, wary of the smallest motion that could send her slipping over the edge. Be steady, Vendaai, she thought, and clamped her jaw shut so the bitter laugh wouldn't escape. But then she had to open her mouth, relax her jaw, so she could speak. "I need to see her," she said, or maybe just thought, but Medic was nodding so she had to have spoken aloud after all.
"Very well," Medic said. "But first sit down, and stay put for a minute." Still holding Seivarden's elbows, she rotated her towards a seat, and gently pushed her down into it. Seivarden sat, and watched, faintly nauseated, as Medic efficiently slid the leg into an opaque bag, pressing the seal closed.
"She's all right," Ship told Seivarden, for the third time, or perhaps the fourth. "I'd have given you visuals on her before now, if I could."
If Seivarden were like Breq. If she were an ancillary. If their positions had been reversed, Breq would have been watching her during the entire operation. The way she usually watched all of them, but couldn't right now, lying on the operating table in the sterile unit, presumably unconscious, missing a leg- or more-
"No, it was just the leg," Ship said. "She's fine, Lieutenant."
Seivarden must have still been very drugged, because she said, louder and blunter than she had intended, "You can just call me Seivarden, Ship."
To her great relief, Ship didn't bother to dignify that with a response.
She just- she only wanted to hear someone say her name. She was painfully aware, then and there, that there were only two living people in the current century who ever had said it like that, plain and friendly, casual, and Ekalu wouldn't, even if she were there in the infirmary- she'd say, "Sir," edged with anger, and worse, disappointment, and worst of all, fear. Or maybe not. She had bigger problems than Seivarden, now, that was for certain.
The hiss of the door sliding open and shut alerted Seivarden to the entrance of Amaat Two, whose shame and concern were so evident that even Seivarden could see the emotions on her face. "I'm sorry, sir," she gasped. Seivarden didn't know if she was apologizing to her, or to Medic. Not to Ship.
"Help me with your officer," Medic snapped, gesturing, and Two rushed forward and supported Seivarden as she got up out of her seat. Seivarden swayed, her blood rushing from her head at the sudden motion.
Medic and Two guided her through the double doors at the back of the infirmary, into the sterile white operating room, where Medic must have installed Seivarden's new brain shunt, a day ago, though Seivarden had no memory of those blank walls and trays of instruments. It was a Radchaai operating room, which meant no clutter of screens or imaging machines, as of course Mercy of Kalr saw everything that happened in its crews' bodies and relayed the information directly to the ship's doctor.
Breq looked small on the table. Well, she would, Seivarden thought, hysterically, there was less of her than usual. The stump of the leg was well encased in a thick corrective. She was still wearing most of her suit, the material simply cut away around the right leg. The rest would need to be removed soon, so any bruises could be treated.
Seivarden let her body fall against the row of sealed cabinets, let her eyes focus on the steady rise and fall of Breq's chest, let her mind drown in that rising dark ocean of unsteadiness.
“She's safe,” Amaat Two said, for Ship, wiping the tears from Seivarden's face with a sterile infirmary cloth. “You're safe.”
“She might not have been,” Seivarden said, spitting the words out around choked breaths, “and I'd never have- she'd never have known- I-”
Two said nothing. Medic looked away. Ship, in Two's view, in Seivarden's ear, in Medic's head, in Breq's broken body, said nothing.
The third time, it happened far away, downwell on a tea plantation, billions of miles from where Seivarden sat in command, frowning as Mercy of Kalr told her, through Kalr Two. “Lieutenant, there may be a problem.”
“Go ahead, Ship,” Seivarden said.
Kalr Two's expression changed from curiosity to alarm as she read off the next line. “A bomb has gone off on Citizen Fosyf's estate.”
Seivarden felt herself freeze, felt numbing chills crawl down her spine. “The captain-”
“She is unharmed.”
Seivarden had known that, really, had known that if Breq were dead Mercy of Kalr would not simply be informing her of a “problem”, but still-
“A bomb?”
She'd pondered everything that could possibly go wrong, but a bomb was not something she had- not something she could have anticipated.
“She is unharmed,” Ship repeated. For her sake or for its own?
Seivarden was on watch. She couldn't be distracted by this. Not until she went off duty, and climbed onto her bunk, waved away Amaat One, and let herself stare at the wall, arms crossed, not thinking about what she was doing, not thinking much about anything.
The second time, she wanted to cry. Tried to. Coughed, trying to summon up the tears, but they didn't come. They stayed inside her, turning her stomach. Weighing her down like a lead brick.
Breq had said, “I don't have time for this.” Breq had left her behind.
Breq had saved them all. Seivarden had known she would, because Breq never let anyone down.
Seivarden let everyone down. Let Breq down.
“Captain,” the Lord of the Radch said, a young version of her, maybe a couple decades younger than Seivarden by biological reckoning, “I am sorry. You may find that hard to believe, but-”
“I will shoot you,” Seivarden said, “if you keep talking.”
Speaking like that to Anaander Mianaai was inviting a death sentence, but Seivarden figured she was probably dead already. She couldn't imagine what use her life might possibly have to the Lord of the Radch, she knew far too much, and she'd basically told her to go fuck herself.
It didn't seem important. If Breq was- if she was- dead, Seivarden didn't have a job, didn't have money, didn't have someone to follow, didn't in fact have any purpose or direction. She'd go back on kef, she knew it, probably within the next few hours, she'd take as much as she could get to try and deaden this terrible pain, and when that happened she'd be as good as dead anyway.
Skaaiat Awer touched her shoulder. Seivarden turned to her and fell against her chest and stayed there, not crying, while Skaaiat pulled her into a hug, rubbed her back. Skaaiat wept, for Breq or for Lieutenant Awn or for herself maybe, for the world they'd both lost today. Her tears dropped onto the back of Seivarden's neck. Seivarden's arms longed to cross but she was still holding onto the gun Breq had given her. She tightened her grip so it wouldn't fall.
“Well,” Anaander said. “You may be interested to know a small sailpod has docked. It is carrying a suspension pod which appears to contain our mutual friend. It's unclear whether she is alive or not. Apparently she was picked up floating in space after blowing up that shuttle.”
Seivarden tensed. Skaaiat's arms dropped from her back and they both stepped apart. Carefully, Seivarden put the gun down on Skaaiat's desk, checking to make sure it was turned off. Skaaiat stood still, presumably talking to Omaugh Station, confirming what it had just told Anaander.
The world had a direction again. Seivarden ran, trying to remember the path to the shuttle bays. As she ran she finally felt wetness on her cheeks.
The first time she thought she'd lost Breq, she was at the top of a strange metal tube, balancing hundreds of meters above a frozen plane of ice, desperately trying to communicate with a staticky voice coming out of a small communications device. The person on the other end seemed to understand Radchaai. Seivarden repeated herself over and over, loud and slow, hoping. Eventually the voice on the other end stopped talking, and Seivarden switched off the device, sighed through a sore throat, and looked down.
Breq lay at the bottom of the chute, shadowed but still visible, brown against white ice. No longer encased in shimmering silver. Her shield was gone. She was-
Seivarden tramped down the suicidal urge to jump, and began the agonizing process of descent. It was even harder than climbing up, because she couldn't see where to put her frozen feet, could only bang them against the tube until she felt a small irregularity and pray that it could hold her weight.
It took her half an hour to get down. Too long. There was probably nothing she could do at this point. She hesitated at the last step. She'd look and Breq would be dead, would have died for her, for no reason Seivarden could work out except that she was an impossibly good person, unbelievably braver and cleverer than Seivarden, and unaccountably dead where Seivarden was alive, and Seivarden would not be able to take it. She would have to figure out something to do with her life, so Breq's wouldn't have been thrown away for no reason, but there was nothing, she was terrified, she was afraid of living. She'd followed Breq because she had nothing else, and even having Breq's hostile, harsh demands had been so much better than nothing that she couldn't face the idea of going back to that nothingness-
She jumped down, landed on her twisted ankle and screamed. At least there was no one to hear. She crawled over to Breq.
Breq was breathing. She'd woken up, lowered her shield for some reason, and passed out again.
Breq was breathing.
Limbs horrifically twisted, face torn and bruised, blood trickling from her nose but she was breathing, and Seivarden pulled off her coat, put it carefully over Breq's battered body, readjusted the bag over her shoulder, clutched the communicator in case it gave off any sound of rescue. She was going to keep Breq breathing. She had made breakfast, she had walked through the snow, she could do this.
“Don't you dare fucking die on me,” she muttered, and laughed, because the whole situation was so absurd.
A clump of hair was stuck to Breq's face by sticky dark blood. Seivarden reached out, brushed it away with an awkward gloved hand. Breq didn't wake.
Seivarden lay down next to her, on the freezing ice, because she couldn't think of anything else. She stared at Breq's face, at the way her nostrils flared as she breathed in and out. “Don't die,” she murmured again. It felt like the first prayer she'd said in years.
When they removed Breq from the suspension pod she looked dead. Her limbs were swollen, her face was black with frostbite, and she wasn't breathing. Seivarden watched from behind a glass panel as station medics went to work on Breq's unmoving body. She was well trained enough not to try to get in any medic's way in an emergency situation.
It took a very long time for them to get Breq breathing again, or so it seemed to Seivarden.
She supposed they were extremely lucky to be on a palace station, with access to the highest quality medical equipment and best trained medics. The station's resources were however currently stretched beyond capacity, and after the first fifteen minutes of tense, busy work, most of the medics left, the door hissing open and closed as they passed Seivarden by, not sparing any time to speak to her or even glance her way. One remained to cover Breq in layers of correctives and hook her up to various machines. Eventually that one too exited, tearing off her mask with a sigh. “You can go in if you like,” she said to Seivarden, and then collapsed on the considerately placed bench, rubbing her eyes.
Seivarden went in.
There wasn't much to look at. The body on the bed could have been anyone, its face was so covered in correctives. When she peered closely she could make out Breq's features, her skin slowly returning to its usual light brown.
All those medics must know that she was an ancillary. Seivarden wondered how Anaander would deal with that. Who else knew? Skaaiat, of course, and that provincial assistant. Half of station security. Vel Osck, but that probably wouldn't be relevant for very long.
And Seivarden.
She knew finding out the truth hadn't changed the base of how she felt about Breq, that unshakable, immovable fact, that love that Seivarden hadn't believed really existed. But there was so much layered on top of it now. Breq was Justice of Toren. Was Ship. To an officer, Ship would always mean her first ship, the one that had practically raised her into adulthood.
Breq- Ship- Justice of Toren had hated Seivarden. Breq- Breq probably didn't hate her. Breq had jumped off a bridge for her. Breq had tried to get her to leave, tried to protect her.
Anaander Mianaai entered. A different body. Seivarden could tell because it was wearing different clothing. A velvety dark brown robe, and twinkling citrine jewelry. Makeup that had probably been immaculate that morning but was now quite smeared.
“I still haven't decided what to do with her,” Anaander commented.
Seivarden said, steady, sure, “If you kill her you'll have to kill me too.”
Anaander laughed, startled and delighted. “What a pathetically devoted creature you are. I would never have anticipated it, from a Vendaai.”
Seivarden said nothing. To her amazement, she was starting to feel happy.
“You were very worried about Fleet Captain,” Ship said in her ear, when Seivarden at last got up, put on her uniform in her darkened room, not calling for an Amaat to help her. “I apologize. I should have been more careful in how I told you about it.”
Seivarden snorted. “I'm not made of glass, Ship,” she said. “Breq's been blown up before. I can handle it.”
“I was concerned for her as well,” Ship said. “But it's probably easier for me. Since I can feel her and see her, whenever I like to.”
“Are you showing her this?” Seivarden asked. “Right now?”
“No,” Ship said. “I try to only show her what I think she needs to see.”
Seivarden sat on her bed to pull on her boots. “You're being very forward with me, Ship,” she said. “No, wait, I didn't mean-” She stopped, one boot half-on. Thought about what to say. “I'm glad you feel you can talk to me? I mean, I'm- honored, I suppose.” She gave a little laugh.
A pause. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Ship said. “I think I talk to you because I need someone to talk to about the Fleet Captain. Someone who understands her.”
“Well,” Seivarden said. “Feel free to complain about her getting herself nearly killed whenever you like. I daresay it would do me good as well.”
“I will take that into consideration,” Ship said. “Thank you for your indulgence, Lieutenant.”
Seivarden gestured acknowledgement. She stood up, hesitated on the threshold, and then strode out into the corridor.
Seivarden heard it when Breq woke up, when she started to sniffle and then sob, even though they were in different sections of the medical bay. Seivarden rolled over to face the wall and folded her arms as tightly as she could to stop herself from stumbling over to the bed, kneeling and begging Breq to accept any comfort she could give, because she knew there wasn't any and it would only make things worse. Thankfully Medic and Kalr Five also noticed, and rushed to feed Breq water and tea and wipe away her tears and everything else Breq would accept from them and not from Seivarden.
She listened, though, too drugged to feel guilty, coming down from the aftermath of her emotional overload into somewhere flat with at least the illusion of calm, lightheaded, disassociated serenity. Drifting in and out, pulled back by the voices. By Breq's ragged breathing.
"Lieutenant," Ship said in her ear, "I'd like your help with the captain. I think she would appreciate some physical contact right now, and I believe you are the best person to ask."
"Oh," Seivarden said.
She tried to get up, and found herself half falling, half jumping off the bed, Amaat Two moving, alarmed, to steady her. Seivarden tried her best to politely disentangle herself. Two stepped back, and didn't move to prevent her from going through the door, just followed close behind.
Breq was lying on a bed, propped up by a pillow, naked besides medical gloves, the correctives and a thin blanket. There were tear tracks down her face, but she was awake, and suddenly everything was all right. “I'm glad you're back,” Seivarden said.
Breq looked at her, and started crying again. Nothing so dramatic as bursting into tears, just- liquid pooling above her lower lashes, her shoulders shaking in small convulsions.“Are you- supposed to be- supposed to be up,” she managed to ask, tone flat even as she struggled to get the words out around her quiet sobbing breaths. Kalr Five wiped the tears from her face. She didn't seem to notice. Kept looking at Seivarden, blinking to try and clear her vision.
“No,” Seivarden said, and, still in that artificially calm, cool space inside herself, did not even need to reach for bravery to say, “Scoot over.”
“What?”
Good idea, Mercy of Kalr said in Seivarden's vision, and even through the calmness Seivarden felt a touch of warm pride that she'd managed to please Ship.
Kalr Five, presumably under orders from Ship, slid her gloved hands under Breq's shoulders, Amaat Two carefully picked up her remaining leg, and they gently moved their captain over towards the wall, so that Seivarden could climb up next to her, crawl under the blanket and press up to Breq, close enough to feel her warmth, her breath. “There. Now Medic can't complain.” She closed her eyes. “I want to go to sleep,” she said to Ship. Ship said, Not just yet, and then, begging your indulgence.
Ship wanted her help with something. Seivarden couldn't imagine what, but she was in bed with Breq, who was alive, and she was feeling so much gratitude to the universe that she would have cleaned all the toilets on the ship with her bare hands if anyone had asked her to. Except she wanted to sleep first. But she could stay awake, for Ship.
There was something important she was forgetting. Something she'd wanted very much to remember. Her shoulder pressed against Breq's, who was still shaking, still crying, and- oh. Right.
Even now, even here, Breq was still being stupid. That was very clear from what she was saying, in between her tears. She wouldn't see what this meant unless Seivarden said it straight out. And Seivarden very much needed her to see what it meant. There couldn't be any more times like this, no more of Seivarden watching an unconscious Breq and thinking, I should have told her-
But she was still afraid, and it would be easier just to sleep-
It turned out she didn't have to say anything. Ship said it for her. Seivarden knew that was a debt that she would never be able to repay. She pushed that aside, selfishly burrowed further into the heat between Breq and the sheets, pushed her face against the bed when Breq said, “Seivarden doesn't love me.”
Like that, not looking at anything but white sheets, she could say, “That's not true.”
Not the most romantic of confessions, but one that nearly hadn't gotten said at all. And now it was out there, and Breq could do as she liked with it. All Seivarden had to do, at the moment, was deal with her ships being incredibly stupid about each other. And keep her arm slung over Breq's broad shoulder. Keep holding on to her. That was the easiest thing in the world.
Thank you, Lieutenant, Ship said, right before she drifted off, and Seivarden allowed herself to hope that just maybe, Ship was starting to like her. Just a little bit.
She liked Ship. Well enough, she remembered the words, and for much the same reason. More than well enough.
She slept.
Seivarden held onto Breq. Around them, people moved, spoke to each other, waved their hands. There was a great deal to be organized. A new Republic. The tyrant in a cell in Security. The System Governor apparently removed. A fleet on their doorstep. A Presger Translator loudly asking for fish sauce.
In a minute Breq would try to throw herself into it. In a minute medics would arrive to take her somewhere to fix her leg. But right now, Seivarden was holding her, and Breq was letting herself be held. Was resting her head on Seivarden's shoulder, and humming, eyes closed.
The fingers on Seivarden's free hand moved, talking to Ship in basic concepts.
Yes, Ship replied silently, we're alive. I'm quite surprised myself.
“Do you anticipate ever not being worried?” Breq had asked, and Seivarden had laughed, and said, “Over you? Never.” And that was still true.
But she was still and loose in Seivarden's arms, and Seivarden hummed along.
“There's a shuttle trying to dock,” Station said, its bland voice flavored with unusual excitement. “I can see it on my visuals. It's a Mercy of Kalr shuttle.”
“Oh God,” Seivarden said, involuntarily. The news in and of itself didn't mean much, except that someone was piloting that shuttle. Someone, at least, was alive.
The door hissed open. Kalr Six came out first, then Medic, helping Breq over the gravity boundary.
Seivarden said, helplessly, “Ship?” and Medic said, “Everyone's fine,” and Seivarden stumbled forward, and Breq caught her, steadied her with firm gloved hands on her shoulders. Seivarden tilted her head down until her forehead rested against Breq's. Breq hummed. One of her hands moved upwards, coming to rest on the back of Seivarden's neck, and Seivarden did cry then, at the flood of relief triggered by that heavy, firm pressure. Her tears splashed onto Breq's cheeks, but neither moved or spoke.
Finally, Seivarden said, into the small space between their mouths, “Aatr's tits, I really did think you were dead this time.”
“I'm starting to think I might be immortal,” Breq said. “Or cursed.”
“Good grief, we should have Medic check your skull for dents,” Seivarden said. “That didn't sound like you at all.”
“Maybe,” Breq said, “I don't want to be like me right now.”
She laid her free hand flat against Seivarden's cheek.
“Cousins,” she said, not looking away from Seivarden. “The other parts of you are fine, or were when I last saw them.”
Silence, then the Sword of Atagaris ancillary saying, shortly, flatly, “Thank you.”
“We thought the station might have been destroyed,” Breq said. Quietly. “We were concerned. I was concerned. For everyone on board here. For Cousin Station, and Queter and Oran, and everyone else. On here, on the other ships.” Her hand followed the curve of Seivarden's cheekbone. “But I thought of you first.” Her fingers moved from Seivarden's neck, and Seivarden gasped slightly at the loss of that pressure, but then Breq took her face in her hands. “I couldn't understand why I thought of you first, and then after I'd thought of everyone else... I thought of you again-”
“Breq,” Seivarden said, voice shaking, “Don't-”
Breq kissed her.
It was- strange. As far as Seivarden knew, Breq had never kissed anyone before, but of course she'd experienced a thousand kisses, through her officers, and she knew the mechanics of it, but her motions were uncertain. Seivarden responded, but held herself back, and when Breq stopped moving, she did, too.
Breq's hand's fell from Seivarden's face. Breq took a step backwards, breathing hard.
Seivarden said, “Did you mean to do that?” Inane, but.
“Yes,” Breq said, though she sounded uncertain.
“Do you regret doing it?”
Breq said, “I don't know.”
“All right,” Seivarden said. “All right.”
“Are we going to discuss that ship that just blew up?” Sphene interrupted loudly.
“Ah,” said Breq. “Yes.” She sounded distinctly unsettled. “I need to speak to Administrator Celar, and both of you as well. And Station. Let's go to her office.”
“Do you want me to come?” Seivarden asked.
Breq's answer was blessedly definitive. “Yes.”
And then she reached out and took Seivarden's hand, and Seivarden thought her heart probably stopped and restarted with a jolt and a churning of gears.
“I'd like it if we could take a break from the near death experiences,” she said. “They always seem to end in improper displays of emotion.”
“Yeah, well,” Seivarden said, “Good luck with that. We'll both be in our hundred and fifties and you'll still be trying to get yourself killed.”
They walked, the ancillaries and soldiers trailing behind. Their joined hands tethering them. “I didn't think you even liked me,” Seivarden said. “I mean, I figured you didn't hate me. Probably.” Something occurred to her. “Is Ship going to be jealous now?”
“More like smug,” Breq said. “It's been dropping hints for weeks, I think.”
“Try 'years',” Ship said, once they were both back on board. “Both of you are staying here where I can keep an eye on you for the next month at least.”
“Ship,” Breq said, “you realize someone may have just started another war. With us in the middle.”
“Investigate over comms,” Mercy of Kalr said. “I'll lock the two of you in your quarters if you have to.” Seivarden had the horrible sense it meant quarters, singular. Breq was a bad enough matchmaker. They didn't need Ship trying it too.
“I'd agree,” Medic said. “Lieutenant, I need to have a look at you. Those kinds of shockwaves can cause all sorts of minor damage.”
“All right,” Seivarden said. She put down her tea and stood up. Breq looked at her. Didn't smile, but she looked, and Seivarden knew Ship must be telling her how that made Seivarden feel.
“Ugh,” she said, “I need to talk to Ekalu.”
“You certainly do,” Medic said. “Later.”
“I don't know what any of this means,” Seivarden confessed, as they walked down Mercy of Kalr's perfectly maintained corridors. “Or what's going to happen. With Breq, with Ship, with Ekalu.”
Medic snorted. “And you think I do? Why do you all come to me for relationship advice?”
“Because you're nosy and hand it out unsolicited all the time,” Seivarden replied. A year ago she wouldn't have dared such familiar ribbing. Now Medic laughed out loud, and Seivarden felt the world settle a little further into rightness.
“If she had been on that ship,” Medic said, plainly curious and letting that overrule propriety, “what would you have done?”
Seivarden made herself think about it, though her mind kept trying to shy away. “Not starved myself to death or locked myself up in a monastery or any other operatic thing,” she said at last. “I have enough of a life outside of her to carry on, I think.” She shivered. Crossed her arms. “But I don't want to. Not ever.”
“I'm sure you won't,” Medic said. “We must all be favored by Amaat, to have survived this long.”
“That's one way of looking at it,” Seivarden acceded.
She remembered all those medical beds. Standing outside airlocks, waiting to see what she'd lose. Sitting in command, having to go on like normal when her heart was in free-fall.
“It's worth it,” Seivarden said. Medic blinked at her, confused, but Ship said, Yes. It is.