One trusted machines. But one never expected machines to return the favor. - Alastair Reynolds

There are certain truths that, in themselves, are as dangerous as any advanced technology.

Then all this," Chromis said, gesturing at the vista before them, "everything we've lived for and made, everything we've dreamed into existence—you firmly believe it won't always be here?" "It'd be egocentric to think otherwise. Almost every sentient being who ever lived belonged to a society that doesn't exist any more. Why should we be any different?" "But our deeds will remain." "If we're lucky. There's every chance they won't survive either." "That's so bleak, Rudd." "Bracing, I prefer to think." "But if nothing we do here has any guarantee of lasting, if even the best gestures have only a slim chance of outliving us—is there any reason not to just give up?" "Every reason in the world," Rudd said. "We're here and we're alive. It's a beautiful evening, on the last perfect day of summer." He turned and nodded at the waiting cauls. "Now let's go down there and make the most of it, while it lasts.

People lived and died and did strange, pointless things to themselves. So did societies, be they city-sized states or galactic empires encompassing thousands of solar systems. Everything came and went, everything was new and bright with promise once and old and worn out later, and everything left a small, diminishing stain on eternity, a mark that time would eventually erase.