Michael Flynn: On the Razor’s Edge

Ravn Olafsdottr laughed. “And why should there be, Red Hound? This is a temple, a place of ritual. Who among the builders expected that one day it must be defended?”

Bridget ban snorted. “Have they even the slightest inkling of what they worship?”

“Of course not, Hound. More inkling, less worship.”

“One set of doors,” Gwillgi said. “They open on the mezzanine. That means we cannot see from inside what the Gidulans are about on the other three sides.”

“Other five sides, Bristly Hound,” Ravn told him.

“Four,” said Donovan. “To attack the fane from below, they must enter the Cache, and if they can do that, they need not capture the fane. We can’t defend from the inside. Limited field of fire through the doors, and a death trap if they lob explosives inside.”

“So we interdict the corridors leading here. Spread mighty thin, Donovan.”

“Defenders have an advantage.”

Gwillgi barked. “Not that much an advantage.”

“The others will converge here; and if they can’t, they’ll be a worry up our attackers’ butts.”

We can do this, said the girl in the chiton.

I was thinking,said the Pedant, raising groans from half of Donovan’s mind. The best defense of a good offense.

“We’ll throw the defense forward. Along the mezzanine there and there. The crows are likely to come from the west side; the lions from the east. But some might come along the hallway behind the fane. And they may as easily travel through the ducts or even straight through the offices. If they have enough poppers they can open doors where there are no doors. Go forward, find likely spots for improvised devices, then plant the devices a little past them. Gwillgi, take the west mezzanine; Ravn, the east. Bridget, the back hallway, east. I’ll prepare the back hall, west.”

Ravn hissed—stealthy footfalls from the east—and the four of them folded to the floor, blending in with the décor, weapons pulled and aimed. A moment of quiet descended during which Donovan could wonder how badly he had miscalculated.

A voice whispered the password: kuwatnim, which meant “liberty” in the old Taņţamiž lingua franca. But passwords could be learned and voices imitated. And so the voice added, “When the banner snaps, the fight begins.”

“It’s Eglay,” Donovan told the others, and he told the Shadow to come forth.

Eglay Portion had brought Greystroke and Three Padaborn. “That Technical Name,” said Three, “she wouldn’t leave Domino Tight.”

Shortly, Pyati came in from the other direction with One and Two. “Where is Matilda?” asked Bridget ban.

“Didn’t see her,” Pyati answered.

“That is what you may expect to see in my case,” said Matilda of the Night. “Your man, Pyati, took out Big Jacques. But the crows were nipping hard at his heels.”

“Rinty should have reached my position, coming up behind Big Jacques,” said Three. “But Jacques twigged to the trap and they reversed direction. I think they caught your Pup coming up behind them.”

Greystroke, if it was possible, became a little grayer. And the Fudir remembered old days in Amir Naith’s Gulli. On to the Hadramoo! Och, Hugh! he thought, and the rest of him left him momentarily in peace. But there was little time for peace in a time of war, and the Silky Voice embraced the sorrow and sequestered it.

The Sleuth calculated from the intelligence the Pedant had tabulated from Five that they faced fourteen magpies, three Shadows—one wounded—and a Name. Seven bogies were approaching along the mezzanine from each direction, but Gidula, the Secret Name, and two of Gidula’s comets were missing. Uncounted casualties?

No, Donovan decided. Gidula would not perish as anonymously as that. A flanking movement was more probable. Around the back of the fane or … above it.

That would bring him too close to the Security Center for the comfort of Donovan’s minds. He redispositioned everyone, placing himself and Bridget ban behind the fane, since that was where he expected the flank attack. Everyone vanished into offices, into ceilings, or—in Matilda’s case—simply vanishing.

I have a theory about Matilda of the Night, said the Sleuth.

You gotta theory about everything. Shaddap an’ get outta my way here.

Inner Child set himself to watch and listen to the approaches. The scarred man’s eyes took on that peculiar wandering characteristic that meant each eye was watching independently. Each ear was listening independently. It was not a state that he had ever tried to describe to others, but it seemed to him that he stood in four different places that were somehow the same place. Donovan and the Fudir peered out through the eyes; Sleuth and the Pedant listened. The Silky Voice fell back to the hypothalamus and began regulating the flow of adrenaline and other enzymes, heightening his senses, broadening his time-sense.

Five burst in on his attention. “Security Center. Attack imminent!” This was followed by two low-intensity thumps and the snap of weapons fired. Then the comm. went silent.

Donovan did not wait but was already on the run. “Gwillgi,” he said over the link. “Take my post!” He heard Bridget ban say, “Ravn, take mine,” then he shot a tzan-wire to the ceiling and climbed up it.

The shortest distance to Méarana was straight up.

Méarana found her carefully laid plan foiled and barely escaped the escape route. While Gidula had come in the front, the Secret Name had been circling around the rear. She saw the man in the golden masque hesitate at a distant intersection, and she sidestepped quickly down another hall. Behind her, she heard Gidula call to the Name in a language her earwig did not recognize.

If you hide, she told herself, they will find you. The problem with hidey-holes was a lack of exits. Safety, should any quality so elusive be had, lay in distance. She reached into her scrip and pressed the detonator, and the corridor she had intended to use blew in from shaped charges. She did not go back to see if her pursuers had been caught in the blast. If they had, she ran for no reason. If they hadn’t …

The hallways formed a rectangular grid with nearly identical office spaces along each; but there were a few diagonal corridors, too—for shortcuts, she supposed—and foyers at the multi-way intersections. Panic fought the calm she needed. Her mother had trained her in a variety of arts, but she was by no means their master.

“There’s no need to run,” she heard Gidula say. How far behind her? Did he see her, or was he talking to the night? “I only want to know how you got off Terra. I have no reason to do you harm.”

Did he take her for a fool? Would she suppose he needed a reason?

They were all sick, the Shadows were, even those like Ravn and Domino. There was something empty deep inside them. Like a shadow cast by the light, they were all form and no substance. Somewhere back along the pathways of their lives they had turned the wrong way and had become irretrievably lost, even to themselves.

“Who are the others with you? Renegade Shadows? You can’t trust them, you know. Remember how my own dear Ravn betrayed you. Some are wearing coveralls instead of shenmats. Are they Protectors? They do not fight like mere boots.”

Méarana saw a partly open door on her right and, without breaking stride, stooped as she passed and leaned her flashlight against it. Then, pirouetting up a side hallway, she threw her ground voice, “Am I a fool?” just as the tilted flashlight pushed the door slightly open. To Gidula, the visual and auditory cues would make it seem as if she had cracked the door to speak.