James S. A. Corey

Her shoulders were tight. She felt like they were in the moment between throwing dice and seeing what numbers had come up. The gambler’s high. She didn’t like how much she liked it.

Nothing degraded morale like the sense that the potential for excellence was being denied.

The universe was tricky, and its sense of humor came with teeth.

Time healed all wounds, but it didn’t erase the scars so much as decorate them.

Bobbie felt the pressure of time slipping away like she was watching a door close, with her on the wrong side of it.

Put a dozen people in front of their cameras, and you’d wind up with thirteen opinions.

Insects buzzed about, still the best-designed pollinating system there was. Technology did a lot of things well, but evolution had it beat when it came to environmental systems.

Still. She had hoped. It never hurt to hope, except when it did.

“All we need is one lucky break,” she said. “One thing to go our way, and your logistical mastermind who would never overreach loses his capital ship in front of everyone who’s watching. And I think everyone is watching.”

“They are,” Avasarala agreed with a sigh. “But …”

“But what?”

Avasarala’s smile was thin, hard, and bitter. Her eyes flashed with an intelligence poisoned by despair. “But it isn’t hubris until he’s failed.”

Drummer had read somewhere that newsfeeds were where secular societies went to find out what cultural narratives were important and what could be ignored.

Time was supposed to heal all wounds. To Drummer, that was just a nice way of saying that if she waited long enough, none of the things that seemed important to her would turn out to matter. Or at least not the way she’d thought they did.

“Emily,” Drummer said, “do you know the one thing I am absolutely sure won’t fix any of our problems? Another committee.”