“These days field workers don’t take the aptitudes,” replied Sirix. Visibly struggling now with the reeducation that had made it difficult, if not impossible, for her to express anger without a good deal of discomfort. She looked away from me, breathed carefully through her mouth. “Not that they would ever test any differently. They’re ignorant, superstitious savages, every one of them. But even so. It’s not right.” Another deep breath. “Fosyf’s not the only one doing it. And she’ll tell you it’s because they won’t take the tests.” That I could believe. Last I was on Valskaay, taking the tests or not was an urgent issue for quite a lot of people. “But there aren’t any more transportees coming, are there? We didn’t get anyone shipped here from the last annexation. So if the growers run out of Valskaayans, who’s going to pick tea for miserable food and hardly any wages? It’s just so much more convenient if the field workers can never get themselves or their children out of here. Fleet Captain, it’s not right. The governor doesn’t care about a bunch of houseless savages, and nobody who does care can get the attention of the Lord of the Radch.”

“You think that strike twenty years ago escaped her attention?” I asked.

“It must have. Or she’d have done something.” Three shallow breaths, through her mouth. Struggling with her anger. “Excuse me.” She stood hastily, throwing a shower of hot water, and levered herself out of the pool, strode over to the cold, and immersed herself. Five brought her a towel, and she climbed out of the cold water and left the bath without another word to me.

I closed my eyes. On Athoek Station, Lieutenant Tisarwat slept, deep, between dreams, one arm thrown over her face. My attention shifted to Mercy of Kalr. Seivarden stood watch. She’d been saying something to one of her Amaats. “This business with the fleet captain running off downwell.” Odd. This wasn’t the sort of thing Seivarden was at all likely to discuss with one of her Amaats. “Is this really something necessary, or just some specific injustice that infuriates her?”

“Lieutenant Seivarden,” replied the Amaat, oddly stiff even given this crew’s love of imitating ancillaries. “You know I have to report such a question to the fleet captain.”

Slightly exasperated, Seivarden waved that answer away. “Yes, of course, Ship. Still.”

I saw suddenly what was happening. Seivarden was talking to Mercy of Kalr, not the Amaat. The Amaat was seeing Ship’s answers displayed in her vision and she was reading them off. As though she had been truly an ancillary, a part of the ship, one of dozens of mouths for Ship to speak through. Thankfully, none of the crew had ever attempted such a thing with me. I wouldn’t have approved in the least.