Michael Flynn - On the Razor’s Edge

The range officer of Stout Defender pinged the target, obtained range and velocity, and computed azimuth and bearings and fed this to the gunner.

“Charging,” the gunner’s mate called from the bowels of the capacitor banks. “Flux nominal.” Then, “Charged ninety-five percent.”

“Locked on,” said the gunner. He studied the data on the monoship, decided it was unarmored, and computed the kill burst. Then he doubled that just for luck, what gunners called the “200% Kill” level. “One-bar-nine,” he ordered.

“One-bar-nine,” the gunner’s mate concurred, having carried out an alternative computation.

“Burn it.”

There was, of course, no bright streak of light of the sort entertainments liked to pretend. Nor was there anything so dramatic as a fireball when the target absorbed the gravity wave. But the monoship began to break up.

“Debris field confirmed,” the range officer announced. “Spreading. Talker, alert Range Safety Office at STC. Parameters follow. The pings show multiple large fragments following the original orbit, a few others tumbling off to the sides on daughter orbits.” Some were approaching the craft promised to the Deadly Ones. She hoped they wouldn’t hole the vessel. Shadows could be quite prickly when it came to their rides.

“Scratch one,” said the gunner.

The range officer continued to monitor the debris field while the gunner’s mate wound down systems and toggled them to safety mode. “I hope,” said the gunner, “this wasn’t just another drill.”

“Invisibility cloaks?” rumbled Grimpen. “The Seven Vestiges?”

“The Vestiges appear to be a sort of trove,” Bridget ban said, “that their Tech Control Ministry, the Gayshot Bo, sequesters and manages.”

“Vestiges…,” wondered Greystroke. “‘Leftovers.’ Old Commonwealth tech? The Confederation inherited most of the Terran Commonwealth of Suns.”

“What else could it be?” said Obligado.

“Prehuman,” suggested Little Hugh, “like the Ourobouros Circuit.”

“ Seven Vestiges,” said Cŵn Annwn. “You’ve named the cloak and the quondam leap.”

“Leaping from world to world,” said Black Shuck, “sounds impossible.”

Matilda of the Night somehow caught their attention without saying a single word or making the smallest gesture. A secretive smile played across the scarlet of her lips. “Keep in mind,” she said, “that one ‘widow’ might birth more than one daughter. It is premature to tally them. The Gayshot Bo broods upon many wonders.”

“Why do they do that,” wondered Little Hugh, “when they could use them in the Long Game? It seems contrary to their own interests.”

Matilda smiled more broadly, “Darling, have you ever been Across? ”

“But, Briddy, ’tis all hearsay,” Black Shuck reminded them. “It’s what Ravn told you, or what she told you that Domino Tight told her—or what she told you that Tight told her that the Technical Name told him . Hearsay, double and triple hearsay.”

Bridget ban leaned back in her chair. “And yet…”

“And yet,” Top Dog acknowledged, “why tell that tale and not another? Yes, it would slide down smooth should the Little One be willing to swallow. It is worth the sniffing out. But, Briddy…” His arm swept and encompassed the remaining Hounds at the table. “Had you mentioned these Vestiges before, the others might have stayed.”

But Bridget ban shook her head. “If they would nae stay for Méarana,” she said, “they should nae stay for tarnhelm. ”

Black Shuck nodded, as if she had confirmed a matter already known. “Aye, you dangle these baubles to sweeten the Kennel’s disposition so that you may take a pack to rescue your daughter. You see? I understand your seductions. But it also changes the complexion of the quest. This is not a mere swoop-and-snatch off Terra, a feat difficult enough. These ‘Vestiges’ are held by the Names themselves, and to seize them wants penetration of the Secret City.”

“The rebels are planning an attack within the Secret City,” Bridget ban reminded him. “They intend to finish the Shadow War with a single bold stroke. In that confusion, a small band might slip into the Gayshot Bo and, while all eyes lie elsewhere, record the treasures.”

She gathered the eyes of all those present. “Are ye with me?” And this gathered the ayes of all those present. All but Black Shuck.

“And where do you stand, darlin’?” warbled Cŵn Annwn.

“Yes,” said Matilda of the Night, “are you with us?”

“It would mean a great deal if you would come,” Bridget ban urged him.

Black Shuck moved away from the doorjamb on which he had been leaning and, in straightening, seemed to grow taller. He thrust his hands into his coverall pockets and lowered his head. The tink of glasses stilled to form a silence into which his words might fall.

“I’ve been hounding most my lifetime,” he said quietly. “Valency, Orsini’s World, Foreganger, Gehpari. A litany of crimes and disasters. But I like to think there were small, mean people—killers, tyrants, thieves—who watched nervously over their shoulders for thought of me; and refugees, prisoners unjust, and the helpless caught between two fires who knew some ray of hope when my name was whispered among them. I have fed the hungry when famines struck, clothed the naked after earthquake or flood, led the distressed to safety, and removed hobnailed boots from unnumbered faces; and never, I hope to tell myself at the end of days, did I do any mean or unworthy thing. But, Briddy ban, I am seven-score years, and my youth is behind me. I have been three times across the Rift, and from a fourth such journey I would not return.”

Bridget ban tried to speak, but Black Shuck raised a palm. “No, hear me. Your quest is worthy. Not for the Vestiges—although if found they may soothe the nerves of the Little One—but for your daughter. For her—and aye, for your Donovan, however little you’ve mentioned him—I would approve the quest. I will go—but I will go to High Tara for you. I will be your champion in the Kennel, secure you resources, deliver you what information might smooth your path. You will need identities, comm. channels, transportations. But none of this will I do unless…” And he turned his eyes on the seven other Hounds and Pups who sat at the table. “Unless you go in for Méarana Harper. If it is merely for the glory of it, or for the chance to snap up ancient baubles, it is not worth the going. So, tell me that this is so.”

Over the next two weeks, they reviewed the recordings Bridget ban had made of Ravn Olafsdottr and her tale, studied gazetteers of the Confederation, digested Gwillgi’s intelligence reports, planned their entries, their points of rendezvous, studied clothing styles, loaded earwigs with Confederal dialects, established passwords, and learned the identities they would assume. Black Shuck supplied them with contact information for agents-in-place—and for Gwillgi, too, should they find themselves in position to make contact.

“Though if Gwillgi ain’t wishful o’ being found,” joked Cŵn Annwn, “it ain’t likely that we’d be a-findin’ him.”

They split into two teams and worked tactical plans at opposite ends of the hall. Bridget ban naturally took the lead in planning the extraction of her daughter from Gidula’s stronghold on Terra. This proved remarkably difficult, since they knew almost nothing of its layout and facilities. It stood somewhere west of Ketchell, on the Northern Mark, but intelligence was scant and uncertain. They would need tactics flexible enough to conform to situational details as encountered.