really care that much.
But he did, somehow. The symbol that the slowly reforming Corps chose for itself would tell him much about its character, about its leaders. Would they choose the warrior queen, the mystic martyr-or perhaps even himself, a sort of dark reminder of what not to become?
He watched the crowd, wishing he could p'hear them. He had heard that when a normal lost a sense-vision, for instance- their other senses sharpened, to take up the slack. Not so with telepathy. His other senses were only fading. Not that any normal sense could begin to replace his birthright.
Speeches began, but he couldn't hear them. The crowd applauded-he couldn't hear that, either.
He hit his call button. After a long delay, James answered. "Yeah?"
"I wonder if I could get the audio for the ceremony outside."
"The dedication? Sure. Don't see as how that would hurt anything."
A moment later the sound cut in. The speaker was winding up.
"... dark days, but they represented hope, created it, held it aloft like a candle. It was their memory that carried us all through to the liberation, their sacrifice that represents the best in us."
Bester nodded sullenly. He thought it had looked like two statues. Byron and Lyta, then.
"And so, all of you, it's my great honor to present our ancestors. Not in fact-for their only child, their great hope, vanished or was killed in the vicious raid on their hidden camp. But spiritually, and morally-" The speaker paused.
"Those of us who grew up in the Corps were taught that the Corps was our mother, and our father. But if we must look to a common, spiritual mother and father, let us look to those who represented freedom, not oppression. Tolerance, not intolerance. Hope of liberty, not the despair of repression.