Michael Flynn: On the Razor’s Edge

“Yayss. When Power o’ersteps His bounds, He violates traditions first of all. It is those who seek change who excuse power’s extension, and they swear they will put it by when once they have succeeded. But whene’er did a man seize power and walk away after?”

“There are stories,” Méarana said. “Cincinnatus. Washington. Venagar. Apaloram.”

“Four!” exclaimed the Shadow. “Faith in humanity restored!”

“Mock if you like. There were certainly others. Less famous precisely because they let go of power.”

“Oh, be not so truculent, sweet.” Ravn patted her on the cheek. “At least there were four.”

“But if Gidula is on the right side…”

Ravn laughed. “Too many sides. Maybe none of them right.”

Ravn brought the monoship across the bar from the superluminal tube called the Tightrope and arrived once more in Henrietta Roads, broadcasting her fu, her authorization. (The fu was faux, but that was a small matter for a Shadow.) She opened negotiations immediately for the return of Sèan Beta, the smuggler’s ship that she had donated to the Fleet the year before.

“These be ticklish talk,” she warned Méarana in the Alabaster accent she sometimes affected, “boot noo tickle during dicker.”

Discussion escalated slowly, corkscrewing up a level at a time through the hierarchy, while Ravn descended toward the impound orbit, where such vessels were kept. Rather than repeat herself with each new flunky, Ravn played a recording in which she gave the required information and pleaded her case, ready to flip to real time if she achieved breakthrough. They started with interface clerks, worked up to the Gamzöngzhy, the Superintendent of Prize Vessels, who deferred to the Shivegun Vayshun Madlow Gunly, or Commander, Fleet Logistics. Ravn maintained a degree of patience during this peeling of the bureaucratic onion that would have reduced the harper to tears.

“Behoold, fate of peacetime navy,” Ravn announced during one interlude while the comm. unit played insipid music. “With noo enemy to fight, they create oobstacle courses to clamber through.” She sat before an oval screen on which colors flowed and blended in synch with the music. Méarana stood nearby but outside the ambit of the Eye. No point advertising her presence.

“Then perhaps ’tis just as well they have no one to fight,” she suggested.

“Be not deceived, sweet harper,” Ravn answered. “All this miigimoos stop when enemy appear. Well, perhaps not all miigimoos.”

“Do we need this smuggler’s ship that badly?”

“Ooh, yayss. When we rescue your father, we need bigger ship. Accoommodate Doonovan’s egoo. And…,” slipping into the Manjrin, “… he appreciate art.”

“Art?”

“Full circle. Kidnap him in that ship, so rescue him in same. Also: sentimental value. Doonovan and I fight Frog Prince in Sèan Beta . Reminder bring tear to his aged eye.”

“What will you do if the Fleet won’t give permission?”

Ravn flashed a broad smile. “Silly harper. I take it.”

“Take it. From the Fleet.”

Ravn snatched at her own shadow, cast by the running lamps, and made as if to peel it off the wall of the comm. station. “Shadows slip through such thumb-fingers as they.”

“Then why dicker at all?”

A shrug. “So they not shoot at us as we scamper off. Hush now, sweet.” A nod to the screen. “Next act of Kabuki.”

By the time they were connected with the office of Swoswai Mashdasan himself, Ravn and Méarana were deep in the sun’s gravity well, approaching co-orbit with the impound vessels, and the time lag between message and response was minimal.

The garrison commander sat behind a broad desk flanked by the starry black banner of the Confederation and that of the 423rd Fleet (Qien-tuq Borderers, “Ever Vigilant”). He wore undress grays with his badge of office on a chain around his neck and a string of decorations on his breast. Méarana wondered how a military that had not fought an actual war in more than a generation could award so many medals. But she supposed the Fleet no different from other professional organizations, which existed largely to bestow awards upon their members. Perhaps the medals represented rebellions crushed, or exceptionally good table manners.

The swoswai greeted Ravn with no great joy. He appeared ill at ease and his eyes wandered. At times, he fingered his medallion as if to assure himself that it was still there.

Here was a man, Méarana marveled, who commanded ships sufficient to reduce a planet to rubble and troops enough to subdue a continental rebellion—and a solitary Shadow in an unarmed monoship could bring an ooze of sweat to his brow.

“And why should I return the ship to the Lion’s Mouth?” said the swoswai after Ravn had explained her request. “Especially when that mouth now roars with two tongues.”

Ravn blinked, then smiled, and her eyes became razor thin. “Ooh!” she said. “You have learned mooch, swooswai! But is this soomething you ought to have learned?”

The garrison commander scowled and his eyes danced. “We’re not stupid, you know. MILINT received dispatches from Yuts’ga. You Shadows burned down half a city there.”

“It was not soo beeg a city.”

“Yes? Well, I swore an oath to uphold the Confederation. What did you swear?”

Ravn looked on him with pity. “To kill her enemies.” The smile with which she delivered this chilled even Méarana. But then Ravn added with unusual gentleness: “Do not choose sides in the Shadow War, oh master-of-ships-and-men, for all your ships and all your men would not avail you, whichever side you took. In these degenerate times, it is dangerous to have an opinion, any opinion.”

Mashdasan ran a hand across his cheek and chin. “Don’t be too certain, Deadly One. My loyalty is to the Confederation and to the Names.”

“Good. So be mine. Hooray for Confederation! Huzzah for Names! We do secret handshake later. Will you give me back my ship?”

“So you can use it for this illegal rebellion of yours?”

“When is rebellion legal? Love doos not mean you nayver spank the little rascal. No, let us say, swooswai my sweet, that I be on sabbatical from Shadow War and my poorpose for now be harmless, moore or layss.”

Mashdasan shook his head, as if brushing off flies. “I’m a blunt man, a simple soldier, and I grow impatient with the antique wordplay your kind enjoys. Speak plainly.”

Ravn sighed and leaned forward into the comm. screen. “I greatly fear, sweet, I can say nothing that will improve your situation. Life is color of your uniform; but rebels and loyalists not see matters so, and those caught between may find themselves ground to powder. What is monoship Sèan Beta to mighty Four-twenty-third Fleet? A mosquito among eagles. We swap. You give me Sèan Beta and I give you this ship. Very fast; good for courier work. Smaller, true, but what you lose in cubic you gain in delta-V. I give you word of honor our Confederation not suffer.”

“Your word of honor … And what is honor worth?”

“A great deal, for is very rare coommodity these days.”

The swoswai’s lips curled. “And hence that much harder to recognize.” He looked to the side and something flashed briefly in his eye. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll notify Fleet Logistics. They will send you the necessary orbital parameters.” He reached out and blanked the screen.

Ravn sat back in the comm. chair. “The fool!” she said, yanking off the headset.

Méarana arched her brows. “Why do you say that? He gave you what you wanted.”

“But too quickly,” the Shadow answered. “Boots like pack rats. Never give up bauble unless forced.”