The Raven Tower

by Ann Leckie

I had not wanted to be buried in ice, and so I had not been. Thinking back, I had not wanted to be buried in the seafloor, covered over with layer after layer of drifting sediment, and so I had not been. I had willed, and I had acted, so very subtly that I myself had not realized I was doing it.

“The question is not,” said the Myriad, “whether distant events will affect us. This is not truly a question—they can, and have and will. Nor is the question how we will be affected. One can make any number of careful and informed guesses, but until events occur any predictions are subject to error, to the extent that one’s information, or one’s understanding, may be incomplete.” “I daresay one’s information and even understanding are bound to be incomplete,” I remarked. “The universe being so wide, and containing so much.” “Yes,” agreed the Myriad. “The relevant question here, it seems to me, is not any of those things. It is, rather, Do you care?”

In all the long years I had been aware of things around me, aware of myself, I had learned that likely nothing was permanent. Had it ever occurred to me that I might not be permanent? It seemed to me that I had thought such a thing once or twice but quickly turned to other subjects. Thinking of it now, I found the idea unappealing. Unpleasant. I did not want to end. But it would seem to follow, from what I had observed of the world so far, that I would.