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I've been watching the recent tv show and thought I'd give the books a reread so I could ground myself in the text again. Also brains have been bad, and Murderbot is such short grippy comfort fiction. I think what makes me come back to this (personally) is my empathy for Murderbot's exhaustion and horror around being asked to be a person.

Murderbot also epitomizes the mortifying ordeal of being known (but simultaneously the even more mortifying ordeal of being loved). There's so much joy for me in the grumpiness of the internal monologue. If I had to come up with a one sentence emotional arc for each book, this one would be Murderbot moving past apathy and learning that it does in fact want to protect (some) humans.

Confession time: I don’t actually know where we are

On a reread, I had also forgotten the level of indifference that Murderbot has, in terms of not even knowing what planet they're on. It's an aspect that comes through so much stronger in the original text.

I didn't realize this (very) short Murderbot story existed until very recently. It's a prequel to All Systems Red and can be read online in WIRED. It reads a bit like a microcosm of the entire series, a journey from apathy to protecting humans to musing about being protected itself, but in 1000 words rather than a handful of novellas and a novel.

It’s not like I haven’t thought about killing the humans since I hacked my governor module. But then I started exploring the company servers and discovered hundreds of hours of downloadable entertainment media, and I figured, what’s the hurry? I can always kill the humans after the next series ends.

I don't want to talk about the tv show too much, but it's hard not to think about what the books are doing differently. It's really interesting to me how much the opening line of this prequel story but also the opening line of All Systems Red both having Murderbot ostensibly considering killing people. Honestly, this particular feeling lines up more closely with the opening of the first tv episode than I was willing to give it credit for at the time.

I wonder sometimes if too high expectations make me more likely to be disappointed in a book. I feel like the Mossa and Pleiti series should be my jam: it's lesbian scifi detective fiction set on an Oxford-esque Jupiter space habitats. This one was pretty good, but the first book is still my favorite.

The details of the mystery in this book are the most solid of the trilogy, and (in some ways) I like Pleiti getting a chance to try to do some investigating on her own. Unfortunately, the romance angle suffers from acute "please just talk to each other" syndrome where they each worry on their own about what the other is thinking and feeling.

This is also maybe a minor and petty opinion, but it felt like this book over-did loan words from other languages; arguably, in universe this could be part of the academic study of past earth so I can give it a little bit of a pass. However, it feels like a :chart_with_upwards_trend: from the first book which had none (to my poor memory), to the second book with a few, and this third book where it was so frequent as to almost become jarring. I could believe in the adoption of words like chisme or pues or klopt, but ... chiacchierare? chismoseando?

One might contend that things don't happen that way, that adults do not simply wake to Power. But one might consider this: adults often wake up to terrible things, like they have thrown their back out while sleeping or they have cancer or someone they know has perished in the night. Why shouldn't it be something nice for a fucking change?

This is a trans-centered magic novel about a found family of trans witches (gender inclusive) who try to help other newly awakened magic users find their way in the world; they find themselves up against a malicious AI, who feels like the embodiment of boundary trampling and privacy invasion. This book was exactly what I needed right now.

A few caveats: this story is told in the present tense, in an almost overwhelmingly omniscient perspective that dissects everybody's emotions and even the way their choices affect their potential, untaken futures. In some ways, the book feels incredibly rooted in a specific place and time, but in others ways is mostly turned inward-looking about relationships and feelings. The book's language is also quite therapy-brained, sometimes explicitly but mostly in the way that it talks about trauma and feelings and vulnerability. Mostly I leave these caveats because I know folks who would probably bounce off this story for these reasons, but for me, all of this was catnip.

A handful of incredibly small minor details that delighted me: * the trans phrase "a gentleman of alto experience" * the parallel of the fear of being unknowable and illegible to others due to magic as well as already due to gender * the first person pronoun reveal, especially the one here that also explains the present tense * the fact that all of the major characters are trans in some way * casting spells built around community and vulnerability and emotional intimacy * there is nothing like a queer guy calling a they/them person "bud" (affectionate) to make me miss Brian Jeeter from The Strange Case of the Starship Iris (edit: holy shit season 3 is here) * the antagonist texting "smile" and "no :)", which is a precise hit in my own raw spot left by shitty dudes on the internet * the magic spell to infuse a rock with love, when everybody involved doesn't believe they know what love is, in their own broken struggling way

There’s no continuity and the world I have come from is utterly foreign to me. I haven’t heard its music, I haven’t seen its painting, I haven’t read its books, except for the handful I found in the refuge and of which I understood little. I know only the stony plain, wandering, and the gradual loss of hope. I am the sterile offspring of a race about which I know nothing, not even whether it has become extinct.

Highly recommended from me. This book is sort of a melancholy post-apocalyptic coming-of-age survival story, but with a dreamlike tint. It's uncompromising in not giving any pat answers to any of its questions. Why are these women here? Where has everybody else gone? Is this even earth? I feel like it explores a lot of ideas around trauma and knowledge and purpose, but at its heart I feel like it's really getting at what it means to be human when you are disconnected from past social structures but also disconnected from hope for the future.

This is a short story in the Ancillary universe that gives a small piece of Breq's history in the Itran Tetrarchy, which is alluded to in other books. These tetrarchs use a religious ball game (which seems an explicit reference to Mayan ball games) to determine who will be the next leader, with the opposing captain being executed.

I think this would be a pretty good short story in its own right about backroom politics mixing with religion. But, in my mind, it suffers from including Breq, who appears too large on the page and we learn too few details about. I came into this with expectations that this would fill in a piece of Breq's past, but the extra details we learn are incredibly scant. I wonder if this would have been more satisfying if it had been stretched out to a novella with an additional point of view for Breq so that we could see her thoughts.

I will say it is also weird for this story to give pronouns for Breq in non-Radchaii language and to have Her-Breath-Contains-The-Universe describe Breq's body. On the other hand, what is gender to a several thousand year old part of a spaceship that used to have many bodies. Breq even says that she's "gotten used to be being called by whatever pronoun seems appropriate to the speaker", so I don't know that I'd read much into this. I was just surprised.

It's always hard for me to separate what happens in Ancillary Sword and what happens in its sequel. Both books are set on the same station, deal with the same themes, and this book would feel incomplete without its sequel.

“I know that Ship appreciates it when you act for it, and your ancillary façade lets you feel safe and invisible. But being an ancillary isn’t something to play at.”

“No, sir. I can see that, sir. But like you said, Ship appreciates it. And Ship takes care of us, sir. Sometimes it feels like it’s us and Ship against everyone else.” Self-conscious. Embarrassed.

It's funny to me to turn to military scifi for feelings of found family, but what endears me to this book is the relationships between Ship and Breq and its crew. The human crew acts like ancillaries, which previously was a way of dealing with a jerk captain but also is a way for the Ship to cope with no longer having ancillaries itself. Ship helps Breq deal with her own losses by sending her images and data from the ship and crew as if she were still one of many ancillaries herself.

Really, I love the way that the omniscient nature of Ship here allows the reader to see into the hidden emotional state of characters and to show moments that are "off camera" from the main narrative.