Seven Surrenders (Terra Ignota, #2)

by Ada Palmer

from what I know of Ektor Papadelias, they’re a detective first, a Greek fifth, and a European Member somewhere around priority twenty, after many other things like truth, and the Alliance, and reliving the glory days of Mycroft Canner. I don’t think even the King of Spain could have persuaded Papadelias to hush anything up, not for Europe and politics.”

The more people insist that feminism has won, the more they blind themselves to its remaining foes.”

Curiosity is a dangerous thing for a dead man; it tempts one to want to live.

“This is all very fascinating,” she began anew, “but significantly less important than a child with the powers of a god.” “That’s your opinion,” Papa snapped.

LOL I LOVE HOW OBSESSED PAPA IS WITH MYCROFT'S CASE, to the extent that literally *nothing else matters*

but if Mirai Feynman would rather stay home with their bash’ and kids than study the first ants on Mars, maybe even Utopia is vulnerable to too much peace. Our happy world has made complacency contagious. Apollo asked me then if, in two hundred and fifty years when Mars is ready, there would be anyone left, even among Utopians, willing to give up all the pleasures of Earth’s greatest Golden Age for the harsh life of a colonist.

They thought we had to make the world less perfect or no one would be willing to face the hardships of moving on. There are few people left anywhere who are willing to die for something, for their children maybe, but not for a cause, and certainly not for a patch of raw and barren Mars ground. Apollo thought that we need suffering to create people capable of enduring suffering. World Peace does not breed heroes.”

This world is a utopia, not perfect, not finished, but still a utopia compared to every other era humanity has seen.

Achilles flexed his veteran shoulders beneath the pack and straps. “You know, even when it isn’t in my hand, I can always feel the rifle with me.” He stroked its stock, then reached out, grasping at something invisible in the air before him. “And the controllers”—his hand fell to his side now—“and the spear. I remember all three, not jumbled, three full lives. I remember growing up on the mountains with Chiron the centaur who taught me to hunt, and with Chiron the flight instructor who made me best pilot in the forces. I remember losing Patroclus three times. And Hector, I remember the feel of Hector’s blood, the stink of Hector’s corpse growing fouler day by day, three times, a different smell each time. I remember dying, too, Apollo’s arrow, Paris. Three times. More than three, so many versions.”

The first lesson you will learn when war reaches you, reader, is that our limits in civilian life, the point at which we are too tired, too distraught, too weak to go on, are not really our limits. I rose and saluted.

I do not ask you to believe, just play-believe, since often things we play-believe in—superstitions, bedtime stories, luck—still make us feel a little better when hard choices come.