5
" 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. "
― Ann Leckie , Ancillary Mercy (Imperial Radch, #3)
7
" Ridiculous!" scoffed Anaander. "Translatir, ships and stations are not Significant beings, they are my property. I caused them to be built."
"I'm given to understand," said Translator Zeiat thoughtfully, "that most, if not all, humans are built by other humans. If that's a disqualification for Significance, then... no, I don't like that one bit."
"If I am just a possession," I put in, "just a piece of equipment, how could I hold any sort of command? And yet I clearly do. "
― Ann Leckie , Ancillary Mercy (Imperial Radch, #3)
9
" In a thousand years, Lieutenant, nothing you care about will matter. Not even to you—you’ll be dead. So will I, and no one alive will care. Maybe—just maybe—someone will remember our names. More likely those names will be engraved on some dusty memorial pin at the bottom of an old box no one ever opens.” Or Ekalu’s would. There was no reason anyone would make any memorials to me, after my death. “And that thousand years will come, and another and another, to the end of the universe. Think of all the griefs and tragedies, and yes, the triumphs, buried in the past, millions of years of it. Everything for the people who lived them. Nothing now. "
― Ann Leckie , Ancillary Mercy (Imperial Radch, #3)
13
" Thank all the gods,” said Sphene. “I was afraid you were going to suggest we sing that song about the thousand eggs.” “A thousand eggs all nice and warm,” I sang. “Crack, crack, crack, a little chick is born. Peep peep peep peep! Peep peep peep peep!” “Why, Fleet Captain,” Translator Zeiat exclaimed, “that’s a charming song! Why haven’t I heard you sing it before now?” I took a breath. “Nine hundred ninety-nine eggs all nice and warm…” “Crack, crack, crack,” Translator Zeiat joined me, her voice a bit breathy but otherwise quite pleasant, “a little chick is born. Peep peep peep peep! What fun! Are there more verses?” “Nine hundred and ninety-eight of them, Translator,” I said. “We’re not cousins anymore,” said Sphene. "
― Ann Leckie , Ancillary Mercy (Imperial Radch, #3)
