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Max's lasagna existed in the intricate way those pink chunks had been assembled, just like love and hate and anxiety and creativity and art and law and order. Everything that makes us humans something more than elongated chimpanzees. There it was, spilled across the flagstones, and no technology known to man could ever put it back together. It was incredible.

Afterward, I was curled up on the ground and saw the pink chunks spread across the flagstones around me, and before Fort Hull's alarm system started blaring I had the time to think: That's it, right there! The recipe for béchamel sauce. But even if I did my utmost to scoop up the pieces and put them back in the pit that used to be Max's skull, his recipe would still be lost.

I saw a guy get shot during the war. He was named Max, and we were smoking on the terrace behind the B pavilion at Fort Hull, talking about lasagna. Max loved lasagna, and when the bullet hit he was in the middle of a recipe for béchamel sauce.

The car moved through the pitch-black desert like a submarine in a deep-sea trench.

When we fell asleep, the car was engulfed by howling darkness. It rocked in the wind, and I dreamed I slept inside the belly of a giant.

The collateral damage was of two kinds: the civilians unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire, and the children of the federal pilots, who, as a concession to the godheads of defense technology, were all stillborn.

Actually about my fourth time reading this one...

Some things can never be fixed and the question he should have asked himself before entering the room with Charlie is: can we ever be forgiven for the crimes of which we are guilty?

We did what was demanded of us. But however well we understood the utility of what we did, our souls were damaged. It is therefore vital to be able to protect one's soul and for that, strength is needed. I am stronger than Matt, you see, I always have been. I have been able to keep the pain away, prevent it from destroying vital organs.

In order to save humanity, we were forced to be inhumane for a limited period of time. Close down half of ourselves.

In a ditch,there was a part of a lower body, belonging to a young woman. White thighs gleamed in the dead grass, the skin peeled back like a soft husk where the body had been pierced by the bullets of the military police. I remember it was there and then I realized that my instinct to avert my gaze had disappeared. It was what it was. And it was over. The suffering was over. The only feeling in me was that of relief.

Some may pretend not to know or that they have forgotten. Just like me and Matt. But we all knew what was in those sacks. We know very well that it is thanks to their contents that we can live our comfortable lives down here in Kungshall.

Charlie's computer was on and there was something on the screen, so I stepped closer to read what it said.
It was self-evident. His introversion, the outbursts, the fights at school - none of it had anything to do with hormones. This was not a case of adolescent troubles. And the pillow cases, dear God. Matt had been right the whole time. Charlie knew.

These stations remind me of passenger planes. The similarities are striking now that I think back on it. In the airplane, everything was constructed in order to distract passengers from the fact that they were sitting a couple of centimeters from an environment entirely lethal to the human body. That's why airplanes were full of comforting objects from life on the ground. Lifestyle magazines, food and alcohol.

Because you don't kill the ants one by one. All you have to do is infect a couple of them who then bring the poison to the rest of the colony. You let the ants exterminate themselves. It takes a while. You have to be patient. But one day, they are all dead or dying, small black crumbs on the floor of the house. The ants themselves will never understand what happened.

"I think he is starting to remember. The pillow case, Sigrid. Isn't it obvious?"

I wasn't standing very far away. The thrushes scattered at the shots. Bodies were ripped apart, one after the other. Disintegrated. The lower half of a body was thrown violently through the air. The feet lacked shoes, one foot had lost its sock. In the silence afterwards, I met Matt's gaze. Dear God, why hadn't he closed his eyes? Instead, he walked around with that sock for hours afterward. Tried to find its foot.

"What do you thin the pillow case thing was all about?"
"Nothing," I answered. But Matt wasn't satisfied. So this was what he had been thinking about.
"Do you think he was trying to say something? Is he angry at us, do you think?" he went on.
"I don't know, Matt. He's a teenager now. You're angry at everyone at that age."

Suddenly Charlie stood in the doorway. He had something over his head. The kitchen was fairly dark and at first I thought he had his hood pulled up but then I saw from the pattern of the fabric that it was one of the station's pillow cases he had pulled over his head. Both Matt and I stared at each other. This didn't even happen when he was younger and extroverted.

He became like this about a year ago, shortly after he turned thirteen. Went quiet, if you will. And he had always been so chatty. At the same time the problems started at school. The fights.
In my defense, I wasn't the only one who interpreted this as normal adolescent development. Even the psychologist thought that his behavior would improve in his later teens, once his hormones had stabilized.

Matt was persistent and explained to Charlie that if you went up above the clouds and out into space, the sunlight would be strong enough to grill you like a chorizo if you didn't have a protective suit on.

You have to keep in mind that we have done this for seven years now. These expeditions are routine. You go to one of the stations up there: Vandelsberg, Anas, Bergudden. Or Granhammar. You live there for a few weeks, go on excursions, obtain samples, measure the temperature and air pressure, take pictures, service the measuring equipment.

The black globes appeared to follow rules and regularities that transcended those of nature or chance. Occasionally, they were seen moving in formation, patiently gliding through the landscape from one place to another.
As if they were following a plan of action.

While this is, I think, Stålenhag's second most recent... I know it's one of the more straightforward narratives, and I don't know if I'm in the headspace for too much complexity now, while I digest Project Hail Mary, so I'm starting my re-reads (Electric State and this) and first-time reads (Tales From the Loop, Things From the Flood, Sunset at Zero Point) here!

I widen my eyes. It’s the first time I’ve felt genuine hope in a long time.
“Settled.” He puts his claw against the divider. “Fist my bump.”
I laugh and put my knuckles against the xenonite. “Fist-bump. It’s just ‘fist-bump.’ ”
“Understand.”

Finding a spaceship “somewhere just outside the Tau Ceti system” is no small task. Imagine being given a rowboat and told to find a toothpick “somewhere in the ocean.” It’s like that, but nowhere near as easy.

So, uhm... Eridian bodies remove all the heavy metals from their food, right...?

Not a pleasant idea, but it could mean survival...

I took a life-form I knew nothing about and used technology I didn’t understand to modify it. Of course there were unintended consequences. It was stupidly arrogant of me to assume I could predict everything.

My face isn't leaking, your face is leaking!

He bounces back and forth some more. “Erid will live! Earth will live! Everyone live!” He curls the claws of one hand into a ball and presses it against the xenonite. “Fist me!”
I push my knuckles against the xenonite. “It’s ‘fist-bump,’ but yeah.”