Redemption Ark

by Alastair Reynolds

In zero gravity, heads did not loll lifelessly. Even mouths did not drop open. Dead bodies continued to assume more or less lifelike postures, whether restrained by webbing or allowed to drift untethered from wall to wall. It was one of the earliest and most chilling lessons of space warfare: in space, the dead were often difficult to tell from the living.

In Clavain’s experience, it was the less comforting possibility that generally turned out to be the case. It was the way the universe worked.

“I’ve been a traitor and a spy,” Clavain said. “I’ve killed innocents for military ends. I’ve made orphans. If that’s honour, you can keep it.”

What started as gentle containment became xenocide. What started as authority became tyranny, self-perpetuating and self-reinforcing.

He was still old inside his skull, still seeing the world through eyes that were yellow and weary with four hundred years of war. He had done what he could, and the emotional burden had cost him terribly, and he did not think he had the energy to do it one more time.