Alastair Reynolds

“A splendidly inept thing,” Sylveste said, nodding despite himself.

“What?”

“The human capacity for grief. It just isn’t capable of providing an adequate emotional response once the dead exceed a few dozen in number. And it doesn’t just level off—it just gives up, resets itself to zero. Admit it. None of us feel a damn about these people.”

“Only trying to make conversation, friend.”

“Don’t bother—it’s an overrated activity at the best of times.”

“I don’t know.” That was typical Sajaki; like all the genuinely clever people Sylveste had met he knew better than to feign understanding where none existed.

It was the wrong approach. But it was the only way we—they—could see at the time. So we mustn’t mock them for their mistakes. In two hundred years, someone will be just as quick to mock us for ours, if we’re not careful.

Afterwards, when Clavain tried to imaging how he might describe it, he found that words were never going to be adequate for the task. And that was no surprise: evolution had shaped language to convey many concepts, but going from a single to a networked topology of self was not amongst them.

I was going to call it a mistake, but you could argue that there are no mistakes in war, only fortunate and less fortunate events.

“How long have we been friends, Dan?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it friendship; more a kind of mutual parasitism.”

“I imagine you feel insignificant,” Sajaki said, almost as if he had been listening in on the conversation. “Well; you’re justified in feeling that way. You are insignificant. That’s the majesty of this place. Would you choose it any other way?”

“It’s all in the fine print. You should read it sometime.”

“When I’m gripped by existential boredom,” Khouri said, “I might try it.”

The mere fact that there could be danger in this is fascination in itself; almost an incentive to push further. That’s how you feel, isn’t it? Every argument they could use against you would only strengthen your resolve. Because knowledge makes you hungry, and it’s a hunger you can’t resist, even if you know that what you’re feasting on could kill you.

Is this a personal grudge or are you just psychotic?

She wondered if she could put a dart in his eye. It would not kill him, but it might take the edge off his cockiness.