in the world was starting to weep, or denying reality, or cursing softly. They would look back on this day and everyone would remember where they were, what they were doing. Garibaldi, for instance, probably was not taking it well.
Yes, they would all remember where they were when Sheridan died.
Of course, Bester would-how could he forget? "Let me see," he imagined himself telling someone. "That day I must have been-why, yes, I was in prison..."
Sheridan had been no friend of Bester's and he'd been a hypocrite besides. They said the best revenge was living well; it wasn't. It was much simpler than that. It was seeing your enemies die.
Now if he could just outlive Garibaldi, then even this life would have a certain sweetness.
He listened intently, in the hopes that Garibaldi had been involved and perhaps had died as well. No such luck. Ah, well, he would settle for Sheridan for the moment.
* * *
They were putting up a new statue where the Grabber had once stood. At first Bester thought they were clearing away the pedestal and its pitiful half-leg altogether, but they were just cleaning it off for a new occupant.
This interested him, as nothing had for some time. He entertained himself by speculating who it might be. Lyta? Byron? More likely Byron-he had been the martyr, the one who had acquired everyone's sympathies. Lyta had led them, too, but she had been frightening even to her allies. Still, it was she who had struck the real blows, wasn't it? Ultimately, Byron had been a coward.
* * *
A few days later he awoke to find a crowd gathered, and the statue in place, covered by a tarp. He put his face against the monomolecular glass, his heart working oddly in his chest. Oh, come now, he thought to himself, disgustedly. You don't