James S. A. Corey

She knew intellectually that he was beautiful, the way the iridescent wings of a carrion fly would be.

“I try to do the right thing, Holden. But there are times when it’s not obvious what that is.”

“I agree with you,” Holden said. “Right up to the part where you tell me this is one of those times.”

She felt like her soul was a handful of dice that were still rolling, and what came up would decide the shape that the rest of her life took.

“So you’re trying to get me prepared for one of my crew dying?”

“Historically speaking, humans are pretty much at a hundred percent on that.”

Humanity was so flawed. Not just her, but everyone. Half the population was below average intelligence. Half below average dedication. Average adherence to duty. The cruel law of statistics. It was astounding that as a race they’d managed as much as they had.

He told himself that, but he was getting less and less persuasive. Not knowing was the worst thing. The second-worst thing as being chased by a bunch of top-of-the-line warships that really wanted to kill you.

Alex’s experience of real family—of blood relations—was more like having a lot of people who had all wound up on the same mailing list without knowing quite why they signed up for it.

Things changed, and they didn’t change back. But sometimes they got better.

You think you know what I am, she thought, but all you’ve got is stories.

The only right you have with anyone in life is the right to walk away.

He wasn’t a man who reined in his curiosity well.

You can tell you’ve found a really interesting question when nobody wants you to answer it.