The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet (Wayfarers, #1)

by Becky Chambers

“I need to talk to you about this super-scandalous sexy vid I saw today.” Ashby’s eyes fell shut. “Neither is tact.” Sissix looked bemused. “Kizzy, I told you, I am done watching your vids. I swear, Humans are the only species who can make coupling tacky.”

“Attagirl,” said Kizzy, clapping Rosemary on the back. “Don’t you worry. It’s a kick in the head, but it’s a fun kick in the head.”

I think our species are rather alike, in some ways. Humans would’ve died out, too, if the Aeluons hadn’t chanced upon the Fleet. Luck’s what saved them. Luck, and discovering humility. That’s really all that makes Humans different from Grum. Well, aside from the obvious.” He chuckled, gesturing to his body.

In many ways, the idea of a shared stock of genes drifting through the galaxy is far easier to accept than the daunting notion that none of us may ever have the intellectual capacity to understand how life truly works.

“Just because you leave home doesn’t mean you stop caring about it. You wouldn’t get homesick otherwise. And your family knows you care.

Dr. Chef knew exactly where all of his feelings were, every joy, every ache. He didn’t need to visit them all at once to know they were there. Humans’ preoccupation with “being happy” was something he had never been able to figure out. No sapient could sustain happiness all of the time, just as no one could live permanently within anger, or boredom, or grief. Grief.

Such a quintessentially Human thing, to express sorrow through apology.

The memories reached out to Dr. Chef, trying to pull him away from his safe observation point. They tugged, begging for him to give in. But he would not. He was not a prisoner of those memories. He was their warden.

“I can’t imagine.” “That’s good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to.

I did not start that war. It should never have been mine to fight.”

“We cannot blame ourselves for the wars our parents start. Sometimes the very best thing we can do is walk away.”

The truth is, Rosemary, that you are capable of anything. Good or bad. You always have been, and you always will be. Given the right push, you, too, could do horrible things. That darkness exists within all of us.

“Funny how it’s always the speciests who ruin things for everybody else,” Sissix said.

It was funny how the potential for profit always seemed to trump antipathy.

The development of a civilization is a scripted event. Minds join together to create new technologies, then better technologies, then better still. If a harmony cannot be found, that civilization crumbles. If ideas emerge that are incompatible with each other, that civilization crumbles. If a civilization cannot stand on its own against threats from the outside, that civilization crumbles.

Perhaps the most crucial stage is that of “intraspecies chaos.” This is the proving ground, the awkward adolescence when a species either learns to come together on a global scale, or dissolves into squabbling factions doomed to extinction, whether through war or ecological disasters too great to tackle divided. We have seen this story play out countless times.

“Stop trying to not be scared. I’m scared, Sissix is scared, Ashby is scared. And that’s good. Scared means we want to live. Okay? So be scared. But I need you to keep working, too. Can you do that?”

Incident report.’ That sounds so . . . I don’t know.” “Inadequate?” “No kidding. I like what Kizzy called it better.” “What was that?” “A ‘monstro clusterfuck.’”

Brothers never go away. That’s for life. And I know married folks are supposed to be for life, too, but they’re not always. Brothers you can’t get rid of. They get who you are, and what you like, and they don’t care who you sleep with or what mistakes you make, because brothers aren’t mixed up in that part of your life. They see you at your worst, and they don’t care. And even when you fight, it doesn’t matter so much, because they still have to say hi to you on your birthday, and by then, everybody’s forgotten about it, and you have cake together.”

Fifty-three people (mostly strangers) convinced me to stick with it. The Long Way exists thanks to their generosity and their encouragement. I am more grateful for that than I can put into words.

My mom gets additional thanks for being my science consultant, and for giving me courage when I needed it most.

Finally, all my love and gratitude to my partner, Berglaug, who held my hand, sketched my ship, brought me meals, proofread my manuscript (twice!) and put up with all the late nights and Post-it notes. She believed in this book more than I did some days, and her ferocious support kept me grounded and hopeful. If you enjoyed the read, she’s the one you should thank.