Tomas Krishna Murphy. It was the name of a stranger; but it was a Terran name, so that much was true. Donovan had been a code name, assigned by the Lion’s Mouth.
So, you are no more the “original” than any of the rest of us, said the Sleuth.
He did not know Graceful Bintsaif so well, but he stopped at her tank and paid his respects. She had given her life—or at least nine-tenths of it—to buy Méarana a little time. For that he would always love her.
Matilda of the Night he did not know at all. He didn’t think anyone did. What is your secret? he asked her sleeping form. There was something odd about her, like a jigsaw piece that did not fit anywhere in the scene.
When Donovan visited with Three, he brought Pyati and One with him, and he told both magpies that he would give them names for their services rendered in the defense of the Gayshot Bo. “Choose your own names, and tell me, and we’ll have the baptism.” This reduced One and Three to tears, which in Three’s case upset the autoclinic until he calmed down. Pyati said, “And our brothers, Two, Four, and Five?”
Donovan agreed to a posthumous naming and thereby unleashed another torrent of weeping and profligate thanks and praise. The easy and extravagant emotions to which the Shadows were subject continued to amaze him. Yet they could hate as easily as love, and torture with the same intensity as caress, all the while believing they could bind such things with rules and rituals.
* * *
Despite the crowding on Grimpen’s ship, the scarred man contrived to be alone. There was a bubble he grew around himself, a sealed-off sphere of space and time within which, whatever crowds hubbubbed about outside, loneliness was the sole resident. Patrons of the Bar of Jehovah knew it well. One would not think a mind that was nine could ever be alone, but there was a certain degree of introspection such a condition imposed, and in a certain sense he could and did turn his back on the world.
It was especially so when matters had drawn to a close, when he had accomplished whatever he had accomplished, and it seemed that there was nothing more left to do. He had felt this after he had consigned the Twisting Stone to the subspatial void, after he had watched the sun dawn inside A. K. Prabhakaran, and on a dozen lesser occasions before he and Bridget ban had ever crossed paths.
Grimpen spoke to him briefly and some of the scarred man must have answered, for he went away. Gwillgi sat across the mess table from him, but while most men took keen interest when Gwillgi sat down by them, the scarred man devoted only a portion of his attention to the now-healed Hound. Inner Child, of course, heard the Alfven warning—short-long, short-long—and the Brute braced for the moment of physical discomfort when they leapt the bar; but the rest of the scarred man was astonished to realize later that they were already in the tubes and headed toward Sapphire Point.
The young man in the chlamys was as good at reading himselves as at reading others, and so he knew that he had once admired Geshler Padaborn above all men and it distressed him seven times seven to see what Gesh had become.
Had the Leader seriously believed that he was continuing the Rising by stealth from within the ranks of the Names? Had that been his goal, he would have led the Committee of Names Renewed, not conducted the resistance against it. Unless the last thing a revolutionary wants is another man’s revolution. He drank an imaginary toast to the Padaborn-that-was, and a second to his brothers who had also been multiplexed.
Ravn Olafsdottr sat for a time just outside the scarred man’s bubble and talked at him. If at any time in his life he had wondered what it would be like to have a sociopath for a friend, his hypothetical curiosities had been answered. They had saved each other’s life, which made them closer than any two people could be. She had saved his daughter’s life—twice. But she had also dragged his daughter into a place where the saving became necessary. Méarana could take care of herself in a wide range of circumstances; but the Shadow War had been beyond that range, and even Hounds and Pups had not come out whole. Ravn was the sort who would rid a dog of fleas by throwing it into the fire—on the calmly rational grounds that fleas could not survive elevated temperatures.
It had all been because of him. Méarana’s kidnapping, her near death. The death of Cŵn Annwn, the terrible injuries to Little Hugh, who had been a friend before the scarred man had known he could have friends. He hadn’t asked for them to come; he hadn’t counted on them coming. But they had come nonetheless, and if they had not come precisely for him, they had stayed and fought precisely for him.
She had come for him. The harper, who had urged him out of his niche in the Bar of Jehovah. The mere thought of the kitten braving a fight among tigers brought tears to his eyes. He had never done anything to deserve such loyalty.
As Bridget ban could easily attest.
* * *
The people aboard Great Moor had taken to sleeping in shifts, and were calling one another the night hawks and the morning larks. Bridget ban, of course, had contrived to place herself at the opposite time of the day to the scarred man. Perhaps this was a sign that he should not have bought the ticket to Dangchao Waypoint in the first place. But what foiled her of this intention was that the scarred man knew no night or day and he in his own self could split his shifts. A part of him was always awake; and Inner Child, of all of him, never slept.
So it was Inner Child who saw Méarana and Bridget ban enter the refectory and who heard the daughter say to the mother, “He wants only a bowl of uiscebeatha to be as I found him on Jehovah.”
“Perhaps,” said the Red Hound, “you should have left him there.”
“Ah, no, Mother, for then I would have lost you, out in the Wild. Remember that, I pray. He came for you when no one else could.”
“And now I have come for him, so the score is paid. He has lived too long in the Shadows and has learned their lawless ways.”
Inner Child had aroused the rest of the scarred man, and the Silky Voice took the tongue to answer. No, not lawless, my dear. They have their codes and laws, just as you do. Different laws and different codes, it’s true. They are more flamboyant; you are more considered. You both dance with death, but you dance at decorous arm’s length while they dance in passionate embrace.
Bridget ban came to the table and sat across from the scarred man. The harper stood a little behind her. The Fudir could see how closely they resembled each other, but he could see the differences, too. In the chin, and in the ears. Those Méarana had gotten from him.
“Do you admire the Shadows, then?” asked the Hound.
Donovan grinned through the scarred man’s lips. “I admire them—and pity them. I have seen them laugh, and seen them weep. And while they laugh and weep for different reasons than you, the tears themselves are genuine.”
Bridget ban leaned forward. “You killed Padaborn in cold blood. He was helpless; he was our prisoner.”
“Ah. My old Leader. He was far from helpless, and he was not our prisoner. I dared not turn my back on him to fight Gidula. But … It was not I who shot him.”
“No?”
“It was Gidula.”
“But, they were allies. They had entered the Gayshot Bo together.”
“Oh, yes,” said Donovan. “But you underestimate the levels of deception and treachery at work. Gidula would never have shot the Secret Name—until the masque came off and he saw Geshler Padaborn.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t, and we cannot ask Gidula; but that’s how the smart money bets. The Secret Name always wears a masque and is the only Name who is nameless. Poor Gesh. His mind was what mine should have been, working in perfect harmony.”
“Is it so good then,” Méarana asked, “to brook no dissent?”
Ha! said the Sleuth. She got you there!
The Fudir grinned crookedly. “Maybe not, but it is quieter.”
Bridget ban spoke up and her voice was not as harsh as it might have been. “What is it you want, Donovan? Or should I call you Tom?”
The scarred man shook
their head. “No. Tomas Krishna Murphy died in the siege of the old Education Ministry. What was left of him died in a bed on Gatmander. He had been betrayed by the man he loved and trusted most. He wanted to die and nearly took the rest of us with him. What do I want? Most of all?” He thought about the question. “I want to sit under my own vine and fig tree and not be afraid. I would like to visit Clanthompson Hall, if you would permit.”
Inner Child noticed how Méarana’s hand, laid casually on her mother’s shoulder, tightened its grip.
“Oh, you would? Donovan, ye keep breaking things. The Dancer, the old Commonwealth Ark, now ye’ve broken the entire Confederation!”
“Well,” said the Fudir, “the Confederation stood between you and me. It seemed the fastest way to reach you.”
“Love, is it? Why, we hae barely spoken in twenty years!”
“Aye, there is something cruel about love. Otherwise, it wouldn’t hurt so.”
Bridget ban did not smile, but her countenance grew more serious. “Maybe it is time for you to come home.”
The scarred man looked up. The young girl in the chiton sang, but her song did not reach his lips. “Why? Does your estate need a vine-dresser?”
“No. Because you stepped between my daughter and the gun of Gidula.”
“‘Our’ daughter. Mine was a desperate gesture. If Gidula had not wasted a charge on Padaborn … If not for Ravn, once I’d dropped, he would have had a clear shot.”
“Not right away.”
The Fudir looked at Bridget ban and nodded. “Yes. Who said we have nothing in common.”
“And Méarana had two more knives. Given such a pause, she might have…” Bridget ban visibly tore herself from the world that might have been. “Ye won’t gang scootin’ off agin, wi’ nary a word?”
Donovan nodded. “Fig tree. Vine. And I’ll leave word.”
Bridget ban could hardly complain, as she herself was often absent on Hound’s Business and the word she left was ofttimes cryptic. “We’ll see. Don’t think it will be like twenty years ago.”
Twenty years ago, Bridget ban had used her charms to seduce Greystroke and Little Hugh, as well as the Fudir, as a way of binding their loyalties to herself. Even two years ago, the Fudir might have thrown that in her face before the Silky Voice could stop him. But Bridget ban was not now who she had been, and neither was he. “I know,” was all he said; and Méarana, of all of them, showed relief on her face.
Donovan rose and pulled open his coverall pants. “That reminds me. I have a present for you.” Before Bridget ban could raise a brow or Méarana blush, he plucked a thread from his undergarment and pulled it free.
“I hope that’s not what’s holding it all together,” said Bridget ban. But she recognized it for a data thread.
“I wove it into my undergarment,” the Fudir explained. “It seemed the safest place, and I haven’t changed the garment since.”
Bridget ban hesitated before taking the proferred thread, and then held it between her fingertips. “What is it ye have for me, Donovan buigh?”
“Old files I copied in the Miwellion in Prizga. They are titled Vyutha 1 through Vyutha 7. ‘Vyutha’ is a term related to the old Murkanglais viuda, which meant variously ‘widow,’ ‘relict,’ or ‘vestige.’”
Bridget ban’s head jerked up. “Vestiges? Oh, well played, Donovan buigh! Well played. Imagine caching the artifacts, then leaving the documentation out where anyone could find it. Where is Prizga?”
“On Old Earth, on the western shore of the Northern Mark, just south of the glaciers.”
“You knew about the Vestiges even then?”
“No, I copied the files because they were the only sealed files in the Miwellion. Briddy, they’re old. They were sealed by the Audorithadesh Ympriales—and they were still sealed when I found them. It will take tender work to break them open.”
“The Ympriales?” Bridget ban and her daughter alike showed bewilderment. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It was an empire on Old Earth shortly after star sliding had begun, after the fall of the Gran Publicamericana but before the formation of the Commonwealth of Suns. It included most of the Northern Mark and parts of Yurp and a place called Strine.”
The Red Hound shook her head. “But then…”
“Aye. The files were time-locked all during the Commonwealth.”
“Then the Vestiges cannae be Commonwealth work?”
“No. And that means they are not prehuman, either. Otherwise, there would not have been so much fuss when Mahadevan found the ruins on New Mumbai. It would have been old news.”
Bridget ban shook her heads. “Then … If not the Commonwealth and not the prehumans … Who made the Vestiges? Where were they found?”
Donovan flicked the dangling thread with his finger. “That depends on how good your decrypters and seal-breakers are. But it does make you wonder why those early expeditions were so keen on finding alien intelligences.”
Bridget ban nodded slowly. “They believed they were out there to be found. Do you think the Confederals know?”
“I doubt it. It was all superstition with them. One problem with hiding things away—it becomes too easy to forget what they were.” Donovan sat back on the bench. “They might be something worth looking for, though.”
“Why, so you can break them, too? I thought you were retiring under your fig tree?”
“Ah, what can it hurt?”
“You, above all men, ask that? You finally deign to show up at Clanthompson Hall, old man, and right away you want to run off again?”
“Old man? I’ve barely a century in my scrip as yet. I’m just hitting my stride. Beside, you should talk about haring off.”
* * *
Méarana had left her mother and father, and joined Ravn Olafsdottr, who stood a little distance away. She was eating one of Donovan’s noisome dishes, something called Chicken Joe Freezing. To all appearances, she had just woken up and set to breakfast, but Méarana had no doubt the Shadow had listened to every word her parents had exchanged.
The Shadow wore coveralls now, and she reached into one of their commodious pockets. She pulled out a metal wire and handed it to Méarana. The harper studied it. “A harp string.”
Ravn nodded. “Used to strangle Khembold, later to strangle Gidula. Achieve artistic closure. You use that, my sweet one, to string your new harp.” Then she waved her spoon in the direction of the other table. “They quarrel,” she said around a mouthful of chicken.
“Yes.”
“But you smile.”
“It marks an improvement over twenty years of silence.”
Ravn put down her spoon. “Are you satisfied, then? I told you in your Hall that I had promised to give Donovan a gift.” She hugged herself. “Ooh! I am soo clayver!”
Méarana crossed her arms and studied the Shadow. She still had not made her mind up about the woman. She suspected that Ravn had transported her into danger precisely so that she could rescue her from it. “And what gift was that?”
The teeth were impossibly white against her coal-black face. “Ooh, I am sooch a sentimental oold fool. I gave him Bridget ban.”
NOTES FOR THE CURIOUS
It’s a big Spiral Arm and the technology of thousands of years from now is about as imaginable as airliners would be to Assyrians. It helps that there were intervening Dark Ages, lost technologies, and deliberate suppression of innovation. That lets us get away with over-the-horizon science and technology of here and now. Take some stuff that we maybe almost know how to do, and then suppose that we can do it really well. Techne that makes an appearance in On the Razor’s Edge includes:
1. “Subway tunnels” through space. Just a gleam in the physicists’ eyes, for now: http://www.npl.washington.edu/AV/altvw86.html.
2. Domino Tight’s exoskeleton. We’re already making their precursors: http://www.technovelgy.com/ct/Science-Fiction-News.asp?NewsNum=2174.
3. Invisibility cloaks. We can’t make them yet, but see he
re: http://www.cnn.com/2010/TECH/innovation/11/16/space.time.cloak/index.html?hpt=T2.
After this manuscript was written but prior to publication “researchers led by the University of Texas at Austin have cloaked a three-dimensional object standing in free space, bringing the invisibility cloak one step closer to reality”: http://www.kurzweilai.net/scientists-create-first-free-standing-3d-cloak?utm_source=KurzweilAI+Daily+Newsletter&utm_campaign=778bb63bfe-UA-946742-1&utm_medium=email.
4. Self-assembling ruins of the Hall of Suns. Researchers at the University of Michigan have developed a concrete material that self-heals cracks and recovers most of the original strength. Now project it way into the future: http://ns.umich.edu/podcast/video.php?id=804.
5. More self-assembly and self-repair of shenmats, equipment, and systems. Self-healing polymer mixtures from Oak Ridge National Lab and the University of Tennessee: http://www.ornl.gov/info/ornlreview/v42_3_09/article15.shtml.
Nanoparticles assembling into complex arrays at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory: http://newscenter.lbl.gov/press-releases/2009/10/22/new-route-to-nano-self-assembly/.
A University of Illinois polymer with self-sensing properties that can react to mechanical stress: http://news.illinois.edu/news/09/0506polymers.html.
Raytheon HEALICS Technology incorporates self-healing into a complex system-on-chip (SoC) design, providing the capability for the chip to sense undesired circuit behaviors and correct them automatically: http://raytheon.mediaroom.com/index.php?s=43&item=1410&pagetemplate=release.
6. Teasers and dazers. At Old Dominion University, nanosecond-long high-voltage pulses that punch holes in cell membranes could be used for a Taser-like weapon that stuns targets because the pulse temporarily disables human muscles: http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn16706-shocking-cancer-treatment-may-also-yield-weapon.html.
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