be felt filling the chamber — there slept like a god in amber — slept
between breath and breath — Ah, that face! Blue, hawkish, hair
curling black beneath the iron crown, eyeglobes imperial beneath
closed lids —
‘Hail, Sesemene!’ whispered Fainey-Juveh.
And I, caught up, cried, ‘Hail Bubutap!’
‘Hail, Eagle,’ the archaeologist said.
‘High O rderer of Orbits, hail!’
‘Hail, hail, hail, Trivash Lord of Trivash!’
‘King of lives, Lord Provider, hail!’
‘Hail, Vulture of Fbmalhaut! Hail, King of Kings! Sesemene,
Emperor — ’
‘Hail, hail, hail!’
We were shouting, a triple shout of triumph. Praliya was smiling
uncertainly, and after a moment’s silence Limini giggled, and Pixr,
their eyes showing white triangles where they slid them sideways at
each other.
‘He will live again, won’t he?’ I said.
‘I had not dared dream we would find this,’ breathed Fainey-
Juveh. ‘Yes, I don’t doubt he will live again.’
Seeing themselves ignored the two girls stepped back to ferret
what else of interest the room might hold.
Fainey-Juveh continued, ‘I hope there will be no difficulties —
we must ensure that he is treated fittingly, not merely an object of
study.’
I said, ‘He will take — seize — his own place among people.’
Fainey-Juveh nodded, allowing his machines forward. They
sniffed and probed, pried and sounded, hum ming to themselves.
Hail, Bubutap. We, the metal dogs of men who come after you,
greet you.
And displayed their findings. So that Fainey-Juveh froze. He was
stooping, white.
Jagging
223
‘No — no — ’ head shaking, trying to tell me something. Me
turning to him, offering support — what? Praliya hanging on his
arm. ‘No — he will not live again.’
‘H o w - ? ’
‘There is no brain.’
‘No brain?’
‘His cranium is empty — full of packaging. No brain.’
‘Ah - ’
‘Ororon must have destroyed it, his successor, his son. Ororon
XVII. Mean — petty — little — man!’ Fainey-Juveh’s teeth
squeaked together. ‘Bastard! Bastard!’
The bubble of my elation was pricked. Before us lay a husk, a
mockery, kept hatefully natural by the deceit of the crystal. Of
course the empire was dead, gone, dust ages since. Here we stood
deluding ourselves, feeding on fairytales amid a hoard of baubles
while a real world roiled on outside threatening death and ravishment upon those we cared for. Kolissa — I see your living eyes —
forgive me, who should be there side by your side facing whatever
shall come. Kolissa, Kolissa, what am I doing here buried in the
rock of this ancient rat-hole rubbish-heap death world? (Rubbish-
heaps are the substance of archaeologists’ work.) I was ashamed,
sidetracked from seeking Kolissa in whose eyes lives the light of the
universe to chase an empty pageantry of death. It made no difference that I would not yet be allowed to land on Otzapoc. Why hadn’t I tried to call her? Certainly the call would be allowed
through, certainly the hospital would allow her to take it. Clearly
there was no harm in finding out. Then she would have known I
was on my way, that comfort would have been hers. Was I really
frightened of finding something had happened to her? I should not
have denied her comfort for that.
I was sitting sprawling on the floor before the crystal sarcophagus and the dead dead dead king. Me, second by drawn second, approaching death, second by second dying, second by second, cell
by cell, today a million more cells dying and rotting in me than
yesterday, a miracle that the blood and lymph could sweep them up
and carry them away, but the lymph and the blood also dying by
degrees until it can no longer sweep out the dead cells and they pile
up and pile up until the death in my body outweighs the life and the
death breath goes out of my long-rotten throat, rotten breath,
breath-rotten, rotten with drink, rotten with empty words spoken
upon empty air (‘Kolissa, I love you’ — yet I am here safe within the
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Anthony Peacey
rock and not with you) in empty rooms and empty taverns while
the universe dies cell by cell and star by star
