dance, weep, laugh, sing, embrace perfect strangers; and every church
bell pealed.
From a balcony of the Zamok he watched lights burn and bob through
twilit streets, bonfires in squares, tumult and clamor. His breath
smoked spectral under the early stars. Frost tinged his beard. "This
can't last," he muttered, and stepped back into the office.
When the viewdoor closed behind him, stillness fell except for chimes
now muffled. The chill he had let in remained a while. Flandry, hunched
in a chair, didn't seem to notice.
Miyatovich gave the Terran a close regard. "You can't go on either," he
said. "If you don't stop dosing yourself and let your glands and nerves
function normally, they'll quit on you."
Flandry nodded. "I'll stop soon." From caverns his eyes observed a
phonescreen.
The big gray-blond man hung up his cloak. "I'll admit I couldn't have
done what got done today, maybe not for weeks, maybe never, without
you," he said. "You knew the right words, the right channels; you had
the ideas. But we are done. I can handle the rest."
He went to stand behind his companion, laying ringers on shoulders,
gently kneading. "I'd like to hide from her death myself," he said.
"Aye, it's easier for me. I'd thought her lost to horror, and learned
she was lost in honor. While if you and she--Dominic, listen. I made a
chance to call my wife. She's at our house, not our town house, a place
in the country, peace, woods, cleanness, healing. We want you there." He
paused. "You're a very private man, aren't you? Well, nobody will poke
into your grief."
"I'm not hiding," Flandry replied in monotone. "I'm waiting. I expect a
message shortly. Then I'll take your advice."
"What message?"
"Interrogation results from a certain Mers--Roidhunate agent we
captured. I've reason to think he has some critical information."
"Hoy?" Miyatovich's features, tired in their own right, kindled. He cast
himself into an armchair confronting Flandry. It creaked beneath his
weight.
"I'm in a position to evaluate it better than anyone else," the Terran
persisted. "How long does da Costa insist on keeping his ships here 'in
case we need further help'?--Ah, yes, five standard days, I remember.
Well, I'll doubtless need about that long at your house; I'll be numb,
and afterward--
"I'll take a printout in my luggage, to study when I'm able. Your job
meanwhile will be to ... not suppress the report. You probably couldn't;
besides, the Empire needs every drop of data we can wring out of what
enemy operatives we catch. But don't let da Costa's command scent any
special significance in the findings of this particular 'probe job."
The Gospodar fumbled for pipe and tobacco pouch. "Why?"
"I can't guarantee what we'll learn, but I have a logical suspicion--Are
you sure you can keep the Dennitzan fleet mobilized, inactive, another
couple of weeks?"
"Yes." Miyatovich grew patient. "Maybe you don't quite follow the
psychology, Dominic. Da Costa wants to be certain we won't rebel. The
fact that we aren't dispersing immediately makes him leery. He hasn't
the power to prevent us from whatever we decide to do, but he thinks his
presence as a tripwire will deter secessionism. All right, in five
Terran days his Intelligence teams can establish it's a bogeyman, and he
can accept my explanation that we're staying on alert for a spell yet in
case Merseia does attack. He'll deem us a touch paranoid, but he'll
return to base with a clear conscience."
"You have to give your men the same reason, don't you?"
"Right. And they'll accept it. In fact, they'd protest if I didn't issue
such an order, Dennitza's lived too many centuries by the abyss; this
time we nearly went over."
Miyatovich tamped his pipe bowl needlessly hard. "I've gotten to know
you well enough, I believe, in this short while, that I can tell you the
whole truth," he added. "You thought you were helping me smooth things
out with respect to the Empire. And you were, you were. But my main
reason for quick reconciliation is ... to get the Imperials out of the
Zorian System while we still have our own full strength."
"And you'll strike back at Merseia," Flandry said.
The Gospodar showed astonishment. "How did you guess?"
"I didn't guess. I knew--Kossara. She told me a lot."
Miyatovich gathered wind and wits. "Don't think I'm crazy," he urged.
"Rather, I'll have to jump around like sodium in the rain, trying to
keep people and Skupshtina from demanding action too loudly before the
Terrans leave. But when the Terrans do--" His eyes, the color of hers,
grew leopard-intent. "We want more than revenge. In fact, only a few of
us like myself have suffered what would have brought on a blood feud in
the old days. But I told you we live on the edge. We have got to show we
aren't safe for unfriends to touch. Otherwise, what's next?"
"Nemo me impune lacessit," Flandry murmured.
"Hm?"
"No matter. Ancient saying. Too damned ancient; does nothing ever change
at the heart?" Flandry shook his head. The chemical barriers were
growing thin. "I take it, then, in the absence of da Costa or some other
Imperial official--who'd surely maintain anything as atavistic as
response to aggression is against policy and must in all events be
referred to the appropriate authorities, in triplicate, for debate--in
the absence of that, as sector governor you'll order the Dennitzan fleet
on a retaliatory strike."
Miyatovich nodded. "Yes."
"Have you considered the consequences?"
"I'll have time to consider them further, before we commit. But ... if
we choose the target right, I don't expect Merseia will do more than
protest. The fact seems to be, at present they are not geared for war
with Terra. They were relying on a new civil war among us. If instead
they get hit, the shock ought to make them more careful about the whole
Empire."
"What target have you in mind?"
Miyatovich frowned, spent a minute with a lighter getting his pipe
started, finally said, "I don't yet know. The object is not to start a
war, but to punish behavior which could cause one. The Roidhunate
couldn't write off a heavily populated planet. Nor would I lead a
genocidal mission. But, oh, something valuable, maybe an industrial
center on a barren metal-rich globe--I'll have the War College study
it."
"If you succeed," Flandry warned, "you'll be told you went far beyond
your powers."
"That can be argued. Those powers aren't too well defined, are they? I
like to imagine Hans Molitor will sympathize." The Gospodar shrugged.
"If not, what becomes of me isn't important. I'm thinking of the
children and grandchildren."
"Uh-huh. Well, you've confirmed what--Hold on." The phone buzzed.
Flandry reached to press accept. He had to try twice before he made it.
A countenance half as stark as his looked from the screen. "Lieutenant
Mitchell reporting, sir. Hypnoprobing of the prisoner Dominic Hazelt
ine
has been completed."
"Results?" The question was plane-flat.
"You predicted aright, sir. The subject was deep-conditioned." Mitchell
winced at a recollection unpleasant even in his line of work. "I'd never
seen or heard of so thorough a treatment. He went into shock almost at
once. In later stages, the stimuli necessary were--well, he hasn't got a
forebrain left to speak of."
"I want a transcript in full," Flandry said. "Otherwise, you're to seal
the record, classified Ultimate Secret, and your whole team will keep
silence. I'll give you a written directive on that, authorized by
Governor Miyatovich."
"Yes, sir." Mitchell showed puzzlement. He must be wondering why the
emphasis. Intelligence didn't make a habit of broadcasting what it
learned. Unless--"Sir, you realize, don't you, this is still raw
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
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
asked anxiously. "You've gone pale."
"No, nothing," he said. "I'm recovering fast, thanks to your kindness."
"You should rest. I've noticed you hour after hour poring over that
report--" She saw his expression and stopped her speech.
In a second he eased his lips, undamped his fists, and raised memory of
what he had come from today up against that other memory. "I'd no
choice," he said. To her husband: "Bodin, I'm ready to work again. With
you. You see, I've found your target."
The Gospodar peered around. "What? Wait," he cautioned.
"True, we can't discuss it here," Flandry agreed. "Especially, I
suppose, on holy ground ... though she might not have minded."
She'd never have been vindictive. But she'd have understood how much
this matters to her whole world: that in those broken mutterings of my
son's I found what I thought I might find, the coordinates of Chereion,
Aycharaych's planet.
XIX
---
The raiders from Dennitza met the guardians of the red sun, and
lightning awoke.
Within the command bridge of the Vatre Zvezda, Bodin Miyatovich stared
at a display tank. Color-coded motes moved around a stellar globe to
show where each vessel of his fleet was--and, as well as scouts and
instruments could learn, each of the enemy's--and what it did and when
it died. But their firefly dance, of some use to a lifelong
professional, bewildered an unskilled eye; and it was merely a sideshow
put on by computers whose real language was numbers. He swore and looked
away in search of reality.
The nearest surrounded him in metal, meters, intricate consoles,
flashing signal bulbs, dark-uniformed men who stood to their duties, sat
as if wired in place, walked back and forth on rubbery-shod feet.
Beneath a hum of engines, ventilators, a thousand systems throughout the
great hull, their curt exchanges chopped. To stimulate them, it was cool
here, with a thunderstorm tang of ozone.
The Gospodar's gaze traveled on, among the view-screens which studded
&nb
sp; bulkheads, overhead, deck--again, scarcely more than a means for keeping
crew who did not have their ship's esoteric senses from feeling trapped.
Glory brimmed the dark, stars in glittering flocks and Milky Way shoals,
faerie-remote glimmer of nebulae and a few sister galaxies. Here in the
outer reaches of its system, the target sun was barely the brightest, a
coal-glow under Bellatrix. At chance moments a spark would flare and
vanish, a nuclear burst close enough to see. But most were too distant;
and never another vessel showed, companion or foe. Such was the scale of
the battle.
And yet it was not large as space combats went. Springing from
hyperdrive to normal state, the Dennitzan force--strong, but hardly an
armada--encountered Merseian craft which sought to bar it from
accelerating inward. As more and more of the latter drew nigh and
matched courses with invaders, action spread across multimillions of
kilometers. Hours passed before two or three fighters came so near, at
such low relative speeds, that they could hope for a kill; and often
their encounter was the briefest spasm, followed by hours more of
maneuver. Those gave time to make repairs, care for the wounded, pray
for the dead.
"They've certainly got protection," Miyatovich growled. "Who'd have
expected this much?"
Scouts had not been able to warn him. The stroke depended altogether on
swiftness. Merseian observers in the neighborhood of Zoria had surely