Michael Flynn: On the Razor’s Edge

Black Shuck took the lead in planning the extraction of the Seven Vestiges from the Secret City. But because he was often on the Circuit with the Kennel, the task more often fell to Matilda of the Night. Obligado’s master, na Fir Li, who had once walked the streets of the Secret City, also sent information, though of older vintage. Little by little, a simulacrum of the Secret City rose from the holotable.

“For such a secret city,” joked Little Hugh during a break, “we have more information on it than on Gidula’s station.”

Matilda smiled coldly. “Don’t suppose that streets and buildings constitute its secrets.” She regarded the ghostly structures on the holotable—simple blocks, since architectural details were lacking. “This one,” she said, pointing to a long oblong hard by the Red Gate. “That is the Gayshot Bo. The Vestiges will be in a vault somewhere in that building.”

“Do we enter by the Red Gate, then?” asked Obligado.

Matilda laughed. Cŵn Annwn studied the layout. “I don’t s’pose they open the Gates to any poke comes along. How’d yuh get in, Tilly? Or na Fir Li or Black Shuck?”

The Dark Hound had long changed her black robes for an equally black coverall. “Through patience,” she said, “establishing identities, securing migration chops, obtaining licenses and work permits. Na Fir Li was a licensed beggar and sweeper. I was a courtesan. Black Shuck…”

“I went in as a day laborer,” said Top Hound. “It took three years to become a Known Man in the San Jösing slums, a drinking companion to those who knew those who had passes. Three years to build the ID up. And it took the Protectors three weeks to tear it down. But I was in and out in two.”

Bridget ban had been listening to everything. “We dinnae hae years!” she cried. “Once we snatch my bairn from Ravn’s talons, we must enter the city quickly and be done.”

“You could,” Matilda pointed out, “return your daughter to the Periphery while the rest of us complete the quest for the Vestiges.”

But Red Hound tossed her head. “I’ll nae lead ye in if I dinna lead ye out.”

“Then,” said Black Shuck, “you will need to learn from your Donovan the secret passage by which he once escaped the compound.”

“He is nae my Donovan,” insisted Bridget ban, “but aye, we must needs free him from Gidula. His rescue is why Ravn snatched my daughter in the first place.” Méarana had gone willingly, even obstinately, but Bridget ban had not shared that deduction with her colleagues.

One of Tenbottles’ men entered the hall, looked from table to table, and strode up to Obligado with a message packet off the Circuit. The Pup broke it open and extracted the flimsy. “Ah!” he said after a moment’s reading. “My master has detached a cutter from the Sapphire Point Squadron for our use, the advantage of which is that it was Confederal built and pressed some years back into the Service as a prize. It is already en route.”

Grimpen grunted, and the sound was as of a quake deep within the earth. “Transport and logistics solved.”

“No,” said Black Shuck. “You’ll not put yourselves in one basket. Too much is at stake. We may lose some of you on this venture. It is no lackaday stroll. But a fell swoop ought not net all of you.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the Hounds at both tables. Cŵn Annwn made a sign to avert the evil. Death was always a possibility, but they preferred that it remain only a possibility. Only Matilda of the Night smiled, and her lips were the color of blood.

They decided to go in as four teams, led by Bridget ban, Greystroke, Grimpen, and Matilda. Obligado would go with Grimpen and Cŵn Annwn with Matilda of the Night. Hugh, of course, would go with his master and Graceful Bintsaif with Bridget ban. They would take different routes and rendezvous on Terra.

On the last night, after everyone had taken leave, Graceful Bintsaif found Bridget ban in the library under the glitter of night. All the lamps had been extinguished and the room was lit only by the starlight that sifted like flour through the bay window. It was bright enough to see by but not so bright as to pluck out details. Bridget ban sat on the stool that her daughter had occupied during that fateful interrogation. She was merely a shape within the shadowed room, starshine highlighting her hair, accenting her profile. Graceful Bintsaif stepped within and closed the door behind her.

“Grimpen and Obligado have gone,” she announced. “They’ll nestle the cutter on the hull of Kethwick Harpy and pretend to be a navigation submodule. The border is open to trade ships. They’ll detach at Epsidanny. There’s a ship’s fu they can use for authorization within the…” She fell silent as Bridget ban failed to respond. “We received a message from Greystroke,” she continued. “He was about to enter the Roads. They’ll board Chettinad Rover as crew when they reach Abyalon, then jump ship once across the Rift and make their way as spacehands.”

The Red Hound might as well have been one with the furniture.

The junior Hound sighed and sat herself in the seat she had occupied while Ravn had spun her tale. Reflexively her eyes flicked toward the sofa, as if she expected to find Olafsdottr still in it. “It will all work out,” she said. “You’ll see.”

Bridget ban stirred. “Will it? Of the five Hounds who have infiltrated the Secret City, only three returned. So by the odds, I am leading three colleagues to their deaths.”

Graceful Bintsaif swallowed, said nothing for a moment. “The odds are there to be defied. We may not need to enter…”

The older woman put hands to knees and pushed herself upright. “Of course we will.”

“Perhaps it was only a story.”

Bridget ban went to the bay window and stood within its ambit. She threw open the casements, and the soft sounds and cool breeze of the prairie night swept in. A sheet of paper on the side table fluttered and the resinous odors of sunflowers and the more pungent milkweeds filled the room. A soft, distant hoot broke the night, and she shivered.

“Owl,” she said. “A poor omen.”

“Owls aren’t good,” Graceful Bintsaif agreed, “but we’ll find her.”

Bridget ban stared at the silhouette of Firstblest Mountain, the tallest of the Dōngodair Hills, backlit by the distant gleam of Port Kitchener. God, it was so lonely Out-in-back, lonelier still with but one soul missing from it. Had Méarana felt this way when her mother had been out among the bright stars?

“She is my life, Graceful Bintsaif. She is all I have, the one good thing I’ve done that might outlast me. And it’s been weeks already. They’ll be past Henrietta by now. My God, how I wanted to fly after her! But I knew that only fools rush in. I had to plan. I had to … bide my time. And every day that dies, she is a day farther from me.”

“There is a positive side to that,” ventured her aide.

Bridget ban turned away from the window and Graceful Bintsaif could just make out the quizzical twist of her features. But she did not ask what the positive side was. So the junior Hound took a deep breath.

“Ravn is going after Gidula, right? We’re certain she spoke sooth on that score. And Gidula holds Donovan buigh. So every day that passes, she is a day closer to him.”

The Red Hound sighed. “I’m not sure that’s a positive side.”

And third, there was the scarred man …

The scarred man had wearied of waking in strange ships, although he did not see how until now he had had much say in the matter. This time, he lay immobile on his back while an autoclinic caressed him, fed him, evacuated him, and numbed him where the pain grew too great. Soothing medications dripped into him; burned skin sloughed snakelike from his arms; cells were cultured, regressed, grafted. New skin grew. Bones knit. He wondered at one point how much of the original him might be left.