Michael Flynn - In the Lion’s Mouth

“For this reason, it is called a ‘quondam state,’ from an ancient word that meant ‘in the past,’ ‘in the future,’ and ‘sometimes’ all at once, because what was one in the past will be one in the future. Do you understand?”

Domino Tight bobbed his head. “No.”

“It is Technical, with many prayers in the hailipzimou , and so understanding is not given to all. Thus the mystery must be tightly guarded by those of us in the Gayshot Bo. But the consequence is this: that by entering the quondam state at one place, you may exit from it at another. I entangled with you when first we met and so I can be at your side quondam. ”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing!” And he thought, Should Padaborn and the others possess this techne, the Revolution is won!

She kissed him gently once more. “And neither would you have, save that your life wanted saving. There are vestiges, the Seven Wonders, and the world must be guarded from them. Yet necessity—and the Fates—rule us all. I could not let you die.”

“And I thank you. My life is yours, now and forever.” He pulled her head down to meet his, and kissed her deeply. But more deeply inside him there was that hard nut where no Shadow ever allowed Love’s entry, and affections were wedded always to craft. Seven Wonders? Kept from the world? Another of the Wonders was undoubtedly what had healed him so swiftly and seamlessly. What were the other five?

“Vestiges,” he said. “That means ‘remains, leftovers, widows.’ Remains of what? The Commonwealth? The prehumans?” His hand found an opening in her robes and ran lightly up her back

Tina Zhi laughed like wind chimes. “Oh, the storied Commonwealth! Everything wonderful is given to it. But it fell from pride and arrogance, and its pride came from its techne. We use techne judiciously, with what wisdom we can muster—because every change in technique means a change in culture; and when a culture has been perfected, as ours has, any change would lessen that perfection. That is why the Vestigial Virgins guard them from impious use.”

Domino Tight laughed and drew her to him once more. “You are no virgin!”

“Oh,” she touched a finger to his lips to silence him, “it is just a name.”

Was there something in the way she said “name”? Domino Tight shivered, and not entirely from her strokes. “Tell me about these techniques,” he said. “I want to know all about them.”

She disengaged and stretched out beside him on the divan. She searched him out and held him. The blankets were lighter even than silk; they may as well have been air. “I can make you strong,” she said. “I can make you fast.”

“I’m already strong and fast.” He laughed.

“Not like this. And I can let you … see things.”

He squeezed her gently. “I’m already seeing things.”

“No. I will give you special lenses that you wear directly on your eyes. With them, you can see my colleagues when we wear our Cloaks.”

“What cloaks are those?”

“These.” And Tina Zhi whirled her robes about her, and disappeared.

For a moment, Domino Tight lay amazed and unmoving on the divan. Then he grew aware of her warmth next to him, the sough of her breath on his neck. He reached and found that which he desired, and heard again the wind chime of her laughter.

“Yes,” she said. “I am still here. This too, is one of the Seven Vestiges.”

“But … How is it possible?”

Tina Zhi hesitated, then said,

“Light flows like a river

Through the channels of the fabric

Around the obstructing one.

The eye sees straight

While the light bends.”

Then, dismissively, “It is Technical. It can be imitated, but not understood. The ancient god Fengtzu wove it on his loom in the age before the age.”

Domino Tight, who believed in the gods only inasmuch as he scorned them, translated that to mean that long ago there had been a man who actually did understand. “And your special lenses will enable me to see those who wear such Cloaks?”

He was no longer certain that he wanted the ability to see the Cloak-wearers, for he now understood who Those must be.

“Yes,” his lover told him, throwing her clothing aside and appearing once more very much in the flesh. “But none of them may you hurt … save this one.” Her voice hardened again at the last and her eyes grew very old. She flipped her hand, palm up, and it was as if her palm were a holostage—for a tiny figure appeared in the space above it.

It was a woman of deep chocolate brown and hair bound up in a complex weave that left neck and shoulders bare. She had the solid, muscular grace of a swimmer and in the image was emerging naked from the ocean. The image captured not an instant, but a moment: The figurine stepped toward Domino Tight as she unbound her hair, and it fell cascading to her waist.

Domino Tight was more charming than wise, but he was wise enough not to voice his thoughts to his lover. By the Fates, he thought, that is the most desirable woman I have ever seen! It would be a sin punishable by the fire to mar that perfect skin. “Why?” he asked, and then asked again with a steadier voice, “Why do you wish her dead?”

“Not dead.” Tina Zhi laughed. “But if she were hurt … If she bore a scar on her face … That would be fit punishment. Jimjim Shot abetted a foul in one of your pasdarms. You will hear of it from Oschous when I return you to Yuts’ga. That act violated … certain rules that had been laid upon her. Her punishment has been willed.”

“Willed. By whom?”

“Are you certain, Domino Tight, that you wish to know the answer to that question?”

There was something in her voice, a loss of flightiness. It no longer soared. And her eyes had grown hard. There was love in them still, but there was something else beside. Looking back, much later, he thought that was the moment when certainty had him.

She looked into his eyes for a long and lingering moment. “Ah,” she said sadly. “You have guessed. Well, fear not, my Deadly One. No harm will come to you. My loins ache for you; my heart longs for you. Together, we will foil this one’s plans.” And she closed her hand into a fist and extinguished the glowing figurine.

When Domino Tight was returned to Yuts’ga, he was half machine. Limbs of titanium enfolded him, multiplied his motions, responded to his thoughts and desires. Wearing this exoskeleton, he could race with the wind; he could strike like a hammer. His eyes could pierce the Cloaks that shrouded Those of Name. He wore such a Cloak himself. “I am become like one of the gods of old,” he told himself as he sprinted unseen through the streets of Cambertown.

“Lyre,” he said over his link, but received no response. The link was dead. High overhead, he knew, his personal satellites had been sanded out of orbit, probably the very night of his ambush. He sampled one of Big Jacques’s channels—and found himself shunted to Oschous’s network.

What he heard was gibberish, but that was because he had not Oschous’s codes. He waited for what he hoped must come. Further gibberish directed to Big Jacques’s network, then instructions directed to the lyre! Those messages he could read, and without breaking stride, he flipped down the goggles on his shenmat and studied the map thus presented. An old warehouse on the edge of town. Pale green dots showed the movements of friendlies. Red dots showed foes. He studied the dance for a time, then asked his belt node to find the best route and set off on it.