Michael Flynn - On the Razor’s Edge

“I think,” said Gidula, “that the question carries its own answer.” And he shot a gas canister into the barely cracked doorway. “Sleep awhile. Later, we will speak.”

Méarana had not awaited the outcome, but, as the old stories ran, she “plied swift heels” down the side hall, then cut right again.

Straight into the arms of the Secret Name.

The Secret Name had never been too certain of Gidula. The Old One was without doubt a useful tool. But a tool with a mind of its own could turn on its user. That the ancient Shadow and he had different plans once the Committee had been purged was a certainty, but the Secret Name had overseen the Bureau of Shadows for many years since his predecessor’s untimely demise and there was little in their thinking that he did not grasp.

Yet Gidula’s plan to seize the Seven Widows had shocked even the Secret Name. The nature of the objects had never been too clear to him, save that they were sacred and ancient. But new technology was destabilizing. You never knew who might rise and who fall when something new appeared. Carefully controlled, allowed to a few, their secrets guarded by a sworn college, the dangerous servant could be kept in its place. The Gayshot Bo was among the least of the ministries, and the feckless Tina Zhi had been left in place largely because no one else wanted her post.

The leaping tokens had allowed selected Names to oversee Confederal affairs directly. But this had not been an unalloyed gift. Some of the token-holders had aligned with the Committee. Now Gidula had begun to wonder about eternal youth, the one thing that might tempt the Old One off the pure path of tradition. He was so afraid of dying that he had let his fears become the master of his acts, and so a quiet coup had become a blazing city. But every blessing is a curse, and the Secret Name wondered if Tina Zhi had found eternal boredom instead.

While one part of his mind was thus engaged, another part kept watch on the darkened hallways he traveled. That reminded him of another miscalculation. Gidula had not expected the building to be defended and they had walked into a well-laid trap. That seemed appropriate to the Secret Name. No prize so great should be won without a struggle.

Circle around behind her, Gidula had told him. There would be a reckoning for that casual inversion of status. Shadows did not give orders to Names. Why this girl—obviously no magpie—was of such interest the Old One had not bothered to explain. That told the Secret Name everything he wanted to know about Gidula.

The girl had seen him, the Ever-Vigilant part of his mind knew, and so would seek to evade. And so, the Planning part of his mind concluded, he must circle out farther still. His Vigilance heard soft footfalls, distant snaps and explosions, Gidula’s muttered curses.

The Secret Name smiled. Apparently, the girl had managed to fool the Old One in some manner. The Secret Name dipped into the Memory Well and found the floor plan he needed. The Calculator examined all the possible routes the fleeing girl could have taken and computed her likely present positions on each route. He allowed his Body to light-foot to the maximum likelihood spot.

And was gratified when, turning a corner, he found his arms full of a beautiful woman.

Beautiful, but not domesticated.

Méarana found her every mother-taught move blocked with contemptuous ease by the man in the maniacally smiling sun-mask. However she struggled, his grip on her tightened, squeezing her against him. “La, snortcha, ” he said, his sweetened breath filling her with unreasoning fear. “Tell me why the Old One is so interested in you.” Sun-rays framed him like a lion’s mane, his lips moved behind the fatuous smile like something wet and slimy lurking in a cave.

Méarana remembered her father’s advice. Never tell them what they want to know, in case, learning all they wish, they might then dispose of you.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was just working in my office and all these people came rushing in and they started fighting.”

Her captor studied her for a moment, and Méarana saw with horror the way his eyes wandered, and that under his graying hair a myriad of scars ran every which way.

“No,” he said. “You struggled too long for a sheep. You are golden skinned. But not from Miniforster. You did not recognize my rank. You are Peripheral. A Hound? No, insufficiently skilled. Just what has old Gidula been up to?”

“Are you the Sleuth?” the harper asked.

The Secret Name cocked his head in puzzlement. “I ask the questions. You supply the answers. That is the order of nature.”

Méarana threw her sky-voice—“I’m coming!”—but she was too close and the old man was not fooled. And so, arms pinned, legs pinned, hugged close to her captor, she employed her only remaining weapon.

She kissed him, thrusting her tongue through the mouth-opening and between his lips.

The golden man had not been kissed in a great many years, and possibly never at all. He did not transform into a Prince, but he did recoil in sheer surprise.

And the floor gave way beneath him.

He fell to waist-height among the piping and ducts that underlay the floor, and like truth rising from hell, Donovan buigh emerged from below. The Secret Name struggled against the imprisoning hardware, but one of his eyes looked on Donovan.

“La, Tom,” he said.

The scarred man pried the mask from the face, tossed it aside. “La, Gesh,” he replied. “Hold still, please.” He pointed a dazer at the man’s head. “I like you better pinned than loose.”

“He didn’t hurt me, Father.”

Donovan did not turn. “That would have come later.”

“So, you’ve remembered,” said the Secret Name.

“Some. Enough. I guess if you can’t beat them, join them.”

“It was actually the Lord Protector’s idea. He wanted a spy among the Shadows. Tom, you don’t know what they would have done to me otherwise. ”

“Given you a worse haircut?”

“But the operation worked! I’m completely integrated. I can perfect you, teach you to become fully yourself. You cannot imagine what it is like!”

“Who else?”

“Does it matter?”

“Who else!”

“Lai Showan. She was the first. But … She couldn’t integrate, she … flew apart. We had to put her to sleep. Can I move my arms now? This pose grows discomforting. And I fear my ankle is twisted in these pipes.”

Donovan did not answer such a transparent ruse. He remembered that he had been already tenfold in the Rising. Had all the chiefs been? Rajasekaran and O’Farrell, too? The Sleuth leapt from the ruse to the half-truth that underlay it. The Lion’s Mouth had created five of us … Five who might not be missed. And we rose up. Not for liberty, but for Geshler Padaborn’s ambitions. And afterward, he would not tolerate any other like himself.

He could have killed us outright, the Silky Voice pointed out. He must have retained some feeling for our brotherhood.

Yes, said the young man in the chlamys. He thought he could still use us, if only we were a little less than himself. But only two of us survived the Rising, and the operation failed. And Lai Showan went mad and we …

“Spent a time on the edge of madness.” The scarred man’s finger nearly depressed the button on the dazer.

The Secret Name started at the apparently random utterance and a moment later nodded, as if he had followed Donovan’s chain of reasoning. “And now, there are only the two of us. Imagine what we could achieve together! We have pulled down the Nomenklatura at last! We have wrecked the Lion’s Mouth! What we could not accomplish by direct assault we have accomplished by burrowing within. Now, we have the opportunity to build something new, something better, something worthy of our goals. Do you understand? We are the new men. We are something beyond the merely human.”