The Galaxy, and the Ground Within (Wayfarers, #4)

by Becky Chambers

Roveg was nothing if not a champion of playing one’s own tune, but there were some areas in which individuality stopped being a virtue and became more of a game of chance.

Sometimes all you could do was make it work.

Pei had a hazy memory of struggling with this concept, of feeling like the natural world was untrustworthy, that it was lying to her in some way.

The universe was not an object. It was a beam of light, and the colours that it split into changed depending on whose eyes were doing the looking.

convenience was morality’s most cunning foe).

What’s the fun in only making things for other people to enjoy?’

Stars, she was tired of needing to be the Linking file for her entire species wherever she went. She’d learned about them; why hadn’t anyone she met ever done the same for her?

What she longed for, rather, was the simple space to think and explore nothing more complicated than can I kick my shoe over the tree? and how do hands work? and if I flash my face at this flower for long enough, can I make it change colour? Sillinesses such as these had been vital once, a key component in learning the basic rules of the universe within and around her. She

The man himself wasn’t the problem. He was what made problems bearable, what softened her angles and quieted her thoughts.

‘I cannot tell you what a constant relief it is, even decades after I left, to be in places where I can say something like that freely.’ Speaker had a word for how she felt right then: eerekere. A moment of vulnerable understanding between strangers.

‘May I ask what it was that led to your exile?’ Roveg was silent for a long time. Speaker feared she’d swung too far, but eventually, his motionless eyes glittered. ‘I told the wrong stories,’ he said.

We bar cultural exchange because change frightens us. Whereas your people . . .’ He looked at her. ‘You fear outsiders because they gave you no choice in the change they forced upon you.’

But theft is a long, proud tradition for many museums, so that decision’s up to you.’

Aliens were . . . aliens. They were almost like people, but not quite, and never would be. Never could be. You could talk to an alien, and trade with an alien, but aliens were not like you. You should be polite to them. You should respect the laws you shared. You should not be their friends.

Turning away from your own story was to open yourself to chaos.

The life Roveg had built for himself was a celebration of difference, of variety, an endless exultation of questioning and learning and questioning again.

for what satisfaction could there be in having nothing else to ask?

Life was fluid, gradient, ever shifting. People – a group comprised of every sapient species, organic or otherwise – were chaos, but chaos was good. Chaos was the only sensible conclusion. There was no law that was just in every situation, no blanket rule that could apply to everyone, no explanation that accounted for every component.

nothing in the universe ever held still.

Comfort, however, was not the same as peace.

If we are out here to benefit from all the rest of you, to learn everything we can and become part of your lives and follow your example, then you must be blood and bone, too. You must also be family.

The only matter in which the GC has proven itself constant is in explaining to us why the things we ask for are impossible. And yet, elsewhere, you have proved yourselves extremely capable of creating possibilities.

How convenient for you, to at last work with a species whose bodies are compatible with your bureaucracy.

The only proper way to approach such inequities was to figure out how best to wield them, so as to bring others up to where you stood.

We travellers, we move through so many artificial environments – so many combinations of air pressure, humidity, temperature, gravity – that we forget how achingly good it feels to step into the natural environment your body spent millions of years evolving for.

Do you not see how dangerous that mindset is? Do you not think that treating the galaxy as if it is something to be endlessly used will always, always end in tragedy?

You haven’t fixed anything. You put a stamp and a permit and a shiny coat of paint on an idea that has been fundamentally damaged from day one.

‘I’m saying stop expanding, stop going places where you’re not invited, and stop treating the galaxy like a free-for-all.

‘What’s your take on the socio-political woes of the Galactic Commons?’ Ouloo stood on the pathway, holding a tray of her elaborate puddings as though she didn’t know what else to do. ‘I want everybody to get along, and I want to make them dessert,’ she said quietly.

I don’t know the right terms to discuss these things. I don’t know the science behind any of it. I’m sure I sound silly right now. But I just want everyone to get along, and to be well taken care of.

Scattered before xyr, resting where they’d fallen, lay two pieces of cake.

‘That’s not a reason. That’s a feeling. Feelings have to have reason.’ ‘Since when?’

‘Because I didn’t want to. And when it comes to a person’s body, that is all the reason there ever needs to be.

Life was never a matter of one decision alone. Life was just a bunch of tiny steps, one after another, each a conclusion that lead to a dozen questions more.

‘I don’t know if it’ll do anything. I don’t know if anyone else will care. But I think that’s what we have to do.’