material? More incoherent than usual, too, because of the brain
channeling. We did sort out his basic biography, details of his most
recent task, that kind of thing. Offhand, the rest of what we got seems
promising. But to fit the broken, scrambled association chains together,
interpret the symbols and find their significance–”
“I’ll take care of that,” Flandry snapped. “Your part is over.”
“Yes, sir.” Mitchell dropped his gaze. “I’m … sorry … on account of
the relationship involved. He really did admire you. Uh, what shall we
do about him now?”
Flandry fell quiet. Miyatovich puffed volcanic clouds. Outside, the
bells caroled.
“Sir?”
“Let me see him,” Flandry said.
Interlinks flickered. In the screen appeared the image of a young man,
naked on a bed, arms spreadeagled to meet the tubes driven into his
veins, chest and abdominal cavities opened for the entry of machines
that kept most cells alive. He stared at the ceiling with eyes that
never moved nor blinked. His mouth dribbled. Click, chug, it said in the
background, click, chug.
Flandry made a noise. Miyatovich seized his hand.
After a while Flandry stated, “Thank you. Switch it off.”
They held Kossara Vymezal in a coldvault until the Imperials had left.
This was by command of the Gospodar, and folk supposed the reason was
she was Dennitza’s, nobody else’s, and said he did right. As many as
were able would attend her funeral.
The day before, she was brought to the Cathedral of St. Clement, though
none save kin were let near. Only the four men of her honor guard were
there when Dominic Flandry came.
They stood in uniform of the Narodna Voyska, heads lowered, rifles
reversed, at the corners of her bier. He paid them no more mind than he
did the candles burning in tall holders, the lilies, roses, viyenatz
everywhere between, their fragrance or a breath of incense or the
somehow far-off sound of a priest chanting behind the iconostasis, which
filled the cool dim air. Alone he walked over the stones to her. Evening
sunlight slanted through windows and among columns, filtered to a domed
ceiling, brought forth out of dusk, remote upon gold and blue, the
Twelve Apostles and Christ Lord of All.
At first he was afraid to look, dreading less the gaping glaring
hideousness he had last seen–that was only what violent death
wrought–than the kind of rouged doll they made when Terran bodies lay
in state. Forcing himself, he found that nothing more had been done than
to cleanse her, close the eyes, bind the chin, gown and garland her. The
divided coffin lid showed her down to the bosom. The face he saw was
hers, hers, though color was gone and time had eased it into an inhuman
serenity.
This makes me a little happier, dear, he thought. I didn’t feel it was
fitting that they mean to build you a big tomb on Founders’ Hill. I
wanted your ashes strewn over land and sea, into sun and wind. Then if
ever I came back here I could dream every brightness was yours. But they
understand what they do, your people. A corner of his mouth bent upward.
It’s I who am the sentimental old fool. Would you laugh if you could
know?
He stooped closer. You believed you would know, Kossara. If you do,
won’t you help me believe too–believe that you still are?
His sole answer was the priest’s voice rising and falling through
archaic words. Flandry nodded. He hadn’t expected more. He couldn’t keep
himself from telling her, I’m sorry, darling.
And I won’t kiss what’s left, I who kissed you. He searched among his
languages for the best final word. Sayonara. Since it must be so.
Stepping back a pace, he bowed three times very deeply, turned, and
departed.
Bodin Miyatovich and his wife waited outside. The weather was milder
than before, as if a ghost of springtime flitted fugitive ahead of
winter. Traffic boomed in the street. Walkers cast glances at the three
on the stairs, spoke to whatever companions they had, but didn’t stop;
they taught good manners on Dennitza.
Draga Miyatovich took Flandry by the elbow. “Are you well, Dominic?” she