Poul Anderson: A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows

“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 Hazeltine 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 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 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.”