Michael Flynn - On the Razor’s Edge

Eglay Portion and the other magpies joined him and looked out on the moonlit river. The Major Moon was high overhead now, and the Minor Moon was closing the distance. “What?”

Number Five shook the stalk of a plant, and seeds like those Padaborn had used sprinkled the floor of the tunnel. “There is a line of these plants from here to the river. Now look at the river’s edge. The stones run along the edge. So…”

“North-south,” said Eglay Portion, “versus east-west. The map grid.”

They returned to their place and opened the grid on Eglay’s tablet. It was populated now with a nearly complete network of tunnels beneath the surface map. “Third grid from the north.” Eglay turned to Pyati. “Because the river runs north to south. And … fourteen grids from the river. That puts our goal … Right there!”

The blue-and-greens overhung the map like so many boughs. Pyati said, “Many buildings there, sir. Which one? We won’t get but one chance.”

“Office district…,” said Eglay. “Only skeletoned at night. The Mayshot Bo … The Gayshot Bo … That’s one thing we’ll change when we rectify the regime. No more dilettante government … Hai!” He turned and picked up the circuit of the comm. unit. “The Gayshot Bo. The Ministry of Technology. He wants us there tonight.”

They stood and Pyati shook the cloth, scattering the objects; but the bangle he put in his left calf-pocket. “One,” said Eglay Portion. And the man turned to him with an inquiry on his features. “Padaborn placed much trust in you, and it was not mislaid.”

“Thank you, Lord Eglay. I wondered at the time why he drilled us so on these object-messages. He knew. Oh, he thought many layers deep. He put some trust too in you, sir.”

“In me!” That startled Eglay Portion. “I was ready to maim him in what was supposed to be a fair fight at the Iron Bridge.”

“ Nishywah. I know only what he told me. May he not have mislaid that trust.”

Eglay looked into the faces that surrounded him and saw that their loyalties were beyond question. How many others teetered on the brink? He suddenly realized that, had he wanted, Gesh could have assumed control of the Revolution itself. “Do you have an extra brassard?”

Pyati nodded to Two, who pulled a blue-and-green armband from his scrip. Eglay Portion removed Gidula’s comet and replaced it with his own rose-on-tan. He fastened the Padaborn colors just below them but wound the one through the other, there being no time for a proper cantoning. When he had finished, he bobbed his head at the others and without another word set off at the trot down the tunnels that led toward the Gayshot Bo. The others followed, their feet falling in silent unison.

Zanzibar Paff had once been an important man. He had been the Bountiful Name. But the burdens of supply and distribution had proven irksome. He had preferred being important to doing anything important. More and more of it he had delegated to assistants and minions, until one day the upstarts—he could never bring himself to call them by their own self-important name—had suggested that he delegate the Name along with the duties.

He preferred to roll with the punch and make the best of the deal. And so the Bountiful Name had become the Contemplative Name, a comfortable fig leaf. (He could not possibly become Nameless!) He had moved into a smaller Residence with a smaller staff, hard by the White Gate, perhaps the better to contemplate matters, and bided his time. He saw how others in his situation bided insufficient time and, like quick-burgeoning weeds, were mown down when they sprouted too soon. When his old colleagues fomented the Shadow War, he was content to watch from the sidelines. Time enough to join the winning side when once that side became clear.

The Contemplative Name resumed his contemplation of his bedmates. Three chubby sheep personally selected from his Estate, cheeks red from repeated usage. The man lay now in exhausted slumber, but the two women were still ready. They had learned early that they had better be. The Contemplative Name took a tablet from the salver by the bedside and swallowed it down with Atwah Spring Water. “Wait for it, darlings,” he told the two women, and they giggled most dutifully.

The bed was spacious; the room, elegantly furnished. The moiré-weave carpet was from Onxylon near the Makrass Marsh; two of the paintings were originals by Bayard from the Old Bhaitry Renaissance.

In the middle of his penetrations, he felt a prod in the back, and he rolled off his sweet cushion to condemn to death whichever minion had dared interrupt him.

But it was a horrid dwarf of a man dressed in a Shadow’s shenmat. Someone’s clown? But Zanzibar Paff’s mind was befuddled by his brain’s ecstasy, and he had no opportunity to speak, for a dart pierced his neck and he lost all feeling.

Little Jacques hushed the two women with a finger to his lips. They crawled aside and huddled together, and he knelt beside Zanzibar Paff and whispered in his ear, “This is the price you pay for neglecting your duties and the traditions of your offices. Blink twice if you understand.”

The eyes stared back at him full of hatred, but they did not blink. So Little Jacques shrugged and with a swipe of his sykes-knife opened the man’s throat from jaw to jaw and let his life drain across the furrows of the satin sheets onto the fabulous Onxylon carpet.

One of the women began to cry, so Little Jacques shot her in the mouth. The pop awakened the man, and he too opened his mouth to cry out in surprise. He was close enough at hand for the sykes-knife. And that left one.

The second woman had raised no alarum. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Please…” Then, open eyed, “Please, what will the Protectors do if they find me alive and him dead?”

Little Jacques understood and made the mercy shot a quick kill. Then he pulled his comm. and used the clicker feature to transmit the code: “Sixteen.” That meant himself. “Target-one moved; three collateral.” He checked his to-do list to see who was next, left an incendiary device on timer, and slipped quietly out of Zanzibar Paff’s pleasure room.

Alexander Gomes-Park had once been called the Industrious Name. Now, he was simply Gomes-Park once more and his once-trusted underling bore the title. I do the work, the man had pointed out the day of the coup, why not bear the Name?

Such impertinence might have earned him the same reward as it had two of his predecessors, whose stains had never been fully expunged from the marble flooring. But he had not come alone to the office to make his observation. A half dozen of the abominable Committee had accompanied him. Outside the door, Protectors held Protectors at gunpoint while the succession was debated.

Gomes-Park had already heard rumor of the disappearances of Names insufficiently attuned to the Tides of History, and he had no desire to float off with that tide. So he had instead removed his medallions and placed them cheerfully around his underling’s neck. The joy in your throat today, he had murmured, will one day choke you.

In any case, managing industrial performance on a thousand worlds was beyond any man’s ken. Quotas would never be met, no matter how many storm-workers were sent, no matter how many medals and awards celebrated achievements, no matter how many managers were disciplined. All that happened was that books were cooked and awards became as meaningful as the output figures they celebrated. He had learned that the best results came from doing nothing and cutting his pattern to match the cloth. Since doing nothing better suited his temperament, it was easier to postdate the plans and secure success post facto.