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Razor Mountain is a serial novel, with new parts published every week or two. For more info, visit the Razor Mountain landing page.

God-Speaker sat in the half-light of his office, silent but for the scratching of his pen. The heavy paper was scored with musical staffs, and he toiled over it with a fountain pen. For writing cleanly and precisely, it was objectively worse than a modern pen or computer program, but there was something about the tactility of the pen and paper that was deeply satisfying to him and it looked better on the desk—alongside the inkwell—than a more modern implement.

A special bookshelf next to the desk was dedicated to the reams of music he had written over the years. He wrote and re-wrote it, playing with modern and ancient forms, little dalliances and sweeping epics. However, it was his symphony (his “first symphony” as he thought of it) that he spent most of his time on. He wrote it and re-wrote it, tweaked it for years, and then threw it away and started again. There were dozens of versions on the bookshelf, and many more lost to time. Long ago, he had dared to imagine it being played, but it never was. It always felt incomplete, and he wouldn’t allow it to be played until it was truly done.

The office was equipped with the sort of lights ubiquitous beneath the mountain, cleverly channeled daylight or carefully tuned artificial light, inset into the ceiling so that it filled the room indirectly. God-Speaker kept those lights off in the evenings. He much preferred using the antique lamps that had been tastefully placed here and there around the big room. Something about being at the center of a pool of yellow light felt right to him, something about the darkness around the edges of the room that the light couldn’t quite penetrate. Maybe it reminded him of traveling with his people in the old days, huddled around the campfires at night. Back then, the darkness beyond the firelight had seemed infinite and full of danger. Here, he knew the limits of the darkness. It was well-contained within stone walls, beneath the crushing weight of the mountain above.

God-Speaker made use of technology, but he didn’t relish the aesthetics of glass and plastic and chrome that were so prevalent these days. He was more comfortable surrounded by his leatherbound books in their wooden bookshelves, his richly upholstered furniture and lamps of brass and iron and stained glass. The office was filled with a faint but powerful scent of old and cherished things: dust and leather, wine and ink.

God-Speaker himself seemed to belong in this place as much as the books on the bookshelves or the furniture and rugs. He was a carefully maintained relic, and he was currently showing his age. He had gotten in the habit of staying with the same body longer in recent centuries. There were advantages to being accustomed to his vessel. He could focus on more important things. But he also felt the aches and pains. He slowed down, and he was beginning to feel that little bit of mental fog creeping in. He would make the jump soon, and relish the freshness and energy that came with it.

However, he had a situation to resolve first. At this point, he had a well-honed sense for little things out of place, signs that something was working against his grand designs. He suspected that someone, perhaps even a member of his inner circle, was working against him in subtle ways. It made him nervous, as it always did, and he had to remind himself that he had dealt with betrayal many times before. Traitors thought themselves so clever, rarely understanding the insurmountable advantages of an opponent with hundreds of lifetimes of experience.

As if the world moved by God-Speaker’s direction, there was a knock at the door directly across from him, in the half-darkness. He sealed the inkwell and set it and the pen aside. He pushed the sheafs of music to the other side. Then he pressed a button beneath the desk.

“Enter.”

The man who came in was tall and thin, with wispy red hair that was perpetually uncertain about which direction it ought to be facing. Reed Parricida: the Razor Mountain Secretary of Labor. He wore a black suit and narrow tie that further accentuated his thinness. He wore large, thick glasses that slightly magnified his eyes, completing the vaguely insectoid ensemble.

“I’m sorry to call you in so late.”

“Is there some sort of emergency, sir?” Reed’s voice was quiet, just barely more than a whisper.

“Not an emergency, but a serious situation that must be carefully addressed.”

Reed walked into the pool of light and sat in the chair across the desk from God-Speaker. He sat with his right foot set up on his left knee, his right elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin cradled in his right hand as he stared intently at God-Speaker.

“I’m going to ask you to do something entirely outside of your usual responsibilities,” God-Speaker said. “It will require the utmost discretion, and I expect no word of it to leave this room.”

“Understood.”

“I have reason to believe that Cain Dolus has been secretly working to expand his influence, and he may be making plans to assassinate me.”

Reed’s magnified eyes widened behind the glasses.

“Cain? Are you sure? He’s always struck me as…well, a little dull.”

God-Speaker nodded. “I was skeptical too, but I’ve been noticing things that concern me. It is also possible that there is a conspiracy among more than one of your fellow secretaries.”

“That is…disturbing.”

God-Speaker shifted in his chair. “By virtue of your position, you have good reasons to be involved in Cain’s major building projects. I would like you to very quietly look into those projects. I am especially interested in any cases where he has been diverting funds or doing any unusual accounting.”

Reed’s narrow brow furrowed. “I appreciate the seriousness of this situation, and your trust in bringing this to me,” he said, “but surely there are others better-suited to this sort of investigation. Someone from Military or Intelligence Operations?”

God-Speaker leaned back in his chair, looking up at the shadowed ceiling.

“I think it’s likely that any traitors will be more guarded around Reese and Cas. I also need to be absolutely certain that neither of them are involved in this before I bring them on board. Besides, you have good reasons to be involved in Cain’s projects, and those two do not.”

God-Speaker didn’t mention that he wanted to avoid looking weak in the eyes of his Directors of Military and Intelligence Operations. The fewer people were aware of the situation, the less likely anyone would entertain any seditious ideas.

Reed sighed. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry to put this burden on you,” God-Speaker said.

“No need to be sorry,” Reed said, sitting up straight in his chair. “I’ll start my investigation first thing tomorrow.”

“Very good,” God-Speaker replied. “I’ll set up a daily meeting to discuss anything you find.”

“Anything in particular I should know?”

“Not at this point. I’d like to see what you can dig up before we share notes. You may find some avenues of inquiry that I hadn’t considered.”

“Understood.”

Reed stood, and God-Speaker did as well.

“I’ve asked Cain to come talk to me tonight as well. He’ll probably be waiting outside when you leave. Try not to look suspicious.”

Reed frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“We often meet at odd hours,” God-Speaker said. “It’s best not to change routine at this point.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. I know how to defend myself, and I will be on my guard. Besides, I think a direct personal assault would not be a good way to carry out the crime and get away with it.”

“Very well. Can you send me a message after your meeting to confirm that nothing happened?”

God-Speaker smiled a tight smile. “Of course.”

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Razor Mountain is a serial novel, with new parts published every week or two. For more info, visit the Razor Mountain landing page.

Once again, the streets turned them back around toward the city proper.

“Can we walk anywhere?” Christopher asked, probing for information.

“Of course not,” Speares said, “but most of the places that are off-limits to you are also off-limits to any civilians, so they’re already locked up tight. If you want to go into town, we can do that.”

“Sure. Aren’t you worried I’ll see things I shouldn’t, as a prisoner? Aren’t you worried about telling me all these things?”

“Not really,” she said. “I already told you, you’ll probably be here indefinitely, and you’ll be given the same kind of basic access that any civilian would have. If, for some reason, they decided to lock you up again, well, you’d be locked up, and it wouldn’t much matter what you’ve seen or heard.”

“Comforting,” he said. “And if they somehow decide I can leave?”

She stopped walking and looked at him askance.

Christopher held his hands up, as though warding her off. “I know, I know. No chance at all. Still, I’d rather not make it any less likely than it otherwise would be.”

“I actually had one other important thing to talk to you about,” she said. “I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to tell you.”

“That’s either ominous or exciting.”

“It’s probably neither, which is what I really wanted to make sure you understood,” she said. “I submitted that motion you asked for, but the tribunal has temporarily deferred your case.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means they set it aside for the moment.”

“I’m not a complete idiot,” Christopher said. “Why did they set it aside?”

“Well, some of the questions I’ve been asking about you were flagged in our systems. Someone in the cabinet seems to have taken an interest in you.”

Christopher frowned. “I assume you’re talking about government, not furniture?”

“Yes.”

“As in, the president’s cabinet?”

“No, no,” she said, hurriedly. “Not quite that high up. There’s a cabinet just for Razor Mountain. The military and civil authorities all get their marching orders from the cabinet. There are secretaries for various different departments, and those departments are in charge of all the different aspects of government here.”

“So some Secretary of Excavations or whatever wants to know what I’m doing here?”

“Sure, something like that.”

Christopher sighed in exasperation. “What does that actually mean for me?”

“Well, it may not be a secretary, it may just be someone who works in their office. And I doubt they would outright fight a tribunal ruling, but they do have sway as long as that ruling hasn’t been handed down yet.”

“You think this person might actually intervene and get me a ticket home.”

“That’s exactly what I didn’t want you to infer,” she said. “Their interest could mean a lot of things. It might mean more questions. It might mean you get some additional privileges. A friend in high places, so to speak.”

“And?” he said, reading her hesitant tone.

“And…it means there is now a non-zero chance that you could actually get what you want. Not a good chance, but a chance. A hell of a lot more than there was yesterday.”

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Razor Mountain is a serial novel, with new parts published every week or two. For more info, visit the Razor Mountain landing page.

Speares led him down the stairwell, going slow for his benefit. His body was still stiff and sore, but he already felt far better than he had the previous day. It was amazing what having basic needs fulfilled could do for a person. He wondered if he was actually supposed to be let out like this, or if Speares was feeling sorry for him. She did seem to be genuinely chagrined about his situation, but she didn’t strike him as someone who would break the rules.

They left the apartment building, and Speares led him deeper into the stone-bound neighborhood, away from the central cavern. She held her notebook open in one hand as they walked. The questions today focused on the details of the bunker and the landmarks around it. Christopher suddenly wondered what the purpose of this questioning was.

“Are you trying to figure out where the bunker is?” he asked. “I assumed your people knew where all those buildings are.”

“I’m not trying to figure anything out,” she said. “If we’re being honest, I’m just told what to ask about.”

“I could probably point out the location on a map, if that would be helpful,” he said.

“It might be,” she replied. “I’d have to get hold of a map though. Let’s put a pin in that.”

“Do you think they actually lost a whole bunker?”

She smiled. “As ridiculous as it sounds, it wouldn’t completely surprise me. There are a number of out-buildings, and they’re all well-hidden, for obvious reasons. From what I know, they aren’t all continuously populated. And in my experience, the bookkeeping isn’t always stellar.”

The narrow street wrapped around in a wide loop, eventually turning back toward the center of the city. They came to a cross-street, and Speares took a left, leading him into another side neighborhood.

“How old is this place?” Christopher asked. “It seems like it would take ages to carve this all out of the rock, even if there were already some caves here. I can’t imagine any caverns this size would form naturally.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about the engineering behind it,” she said. “I know that there has always been somewhere in the city where they’re drilling or digging, as far back as I can remember. The excavations aren’t exactly fast, but they just keep at it, day in and day out.”

“Someone must have designated the money for all this though. The president or something? When did it start?”

She smiled. “That’s the kind of knowledge that’s way above my pay grade. The laws around Razor Mountain have changed over the years, but it’s been around in some form for well over a century. Nobody living here today was around when they first started digging holes. Or if they are, they aren’t talking about it.”

“That’s crazy. How much of this could they even do with early 1900s technology?”

Speares lowered her voice mock-conspiratorially. “Well, there are all sorts of rumors. And only ninety percent of them are insane conspiracy theories.”

“Is that even a fair thing to call it?” Christopher asked. “As an outsider, I think it’s safe to say you live inside a giant conspiracy theory.”

“Fair,” she said, “but I’ve heard everything from hollow earth, H.G. Wells kinds of theories to ancient aliens. A lot of people subscribe to the theory that big chunks of these caverns were already carved out perfectly, and nobody knows how. They were just found.”

“What do you think?”

“I think, like most things, it’s probably a lot more straightforward and less interesting than anyone believes. I think someone clever figured out how to dig out the caverns, maybe a long ways back, when people wouldn’t have thought it possible. And then they just kept digging, using whatever new technology they could. I certainly have a hard time believing some of the crazier rumors. I think this place has always been a government project, or at least became one very early in its history.”

Christopher thought in silence for a moment.

“That sounds reasonable, even if I have a hard time believing that anyone could make this place without spending insane amounts of money.”

“I don’t get to see the bills,” Speares said, “but who’s to say they don’t spend insane amounts of money?”

“Surely someone would notice that much secret spending.”

Speares shrugged. “There are a lot of government programs that are…less than transparent. All those three-letter spy agencies have big budgets, and we don’t know what they get spent on.”

“Someone, somewhere is keeping tabs on those programs though,” Christopher said, questioning the words as soon as they exited his mouth.

Speares gave him a look like he was a small child making proclamations about things he didn’t understand.

“Yeah, okay. I still think it’d be essentially impossible to keep something so big and expensive hidden for so long.”

“You didn’t know about it, right?” Speares said.

“Of course not.”

“And that’s why you’re in…this whole situation,” she said, gesturing vaguely at Christopher.

“Yeah,” Christopher said. “That whole ‘effectively imprisoned for life despite doing nothing wrong’ situation.”

“That’s the one.”

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Razor Mountain is a serial novel, with new parts published every week or two. For more info, visit the Razor Mountain landing page.

Christopher spent a day recovering. By the clock in the main room of his new apartment, he slept for nearly twelve hours. The bed was not particularly nice, but it felt like a luxury.

He noticed that the lights of the cavern dimmed and brightened—presumably with the cycle of the sun— and wondered if sunlight was somehow reflected in from above. There was certainly some artificial light as well, as even in the depths of the “night” there was enough to see the outlines of the buildings. The street lights stayed on at all hours.

He also noticed that all the lights, above and below, were a rich, warm yellow. The buttery light felt like it had come from a time foregone, as though he were living in a very strange Norman Rockwell painting. The little apartment too, was an odd jumble of modern, anachronistic, and outright ancient, as though there was a pileup on the highway of time and the years had all tumbled into one another here.

The appliances appeared relatively new, but the shape and style of them was  outdated. The cabinets were old wood, slightly warped but recently painted. The walls also had a fresh coat, although he discovered little spots behind the furniture where it was chipped or cracked, revealing older colors underneath, or even the base gray-black-flecked stone.

He first woke to the sound of someone just leaving. When he rose, he discovered that food had been delivered and placed in the fridge. Two sets of unmarked green fatigues had been left on the table, crisply folded. Christopher showered, dressed, and ate. As he took his late breakfast, he looked out the window, over the adjacent rooftops and down at the few people making their way up and down the narrow avenue.

He thought about the ridiculous sequence of events he had been put through, so fresh in his mind after the interrogations and interviews. Now, he realized that everything had become simple. Simple apartment, simple food, simple clothes. Simply waiting to find out what would be done with him. There was a part of him that thought he should be outraged, but he found that the simplicity of his surroundings and the peacefulness of breakfast at the window suited him.

Once he was done eating, there was little to do. The door to the apartment looked like an ordinary wooden door, but it was solidly locked. A black plastic plate had been fastened to the wall next to it, presumably to scan key-cards or some other form of ID for entry.

Christopher occupied himself exploring the apartment. He opened all the cabinets, slid the drawers out of the bedroom dresser. He moved the furniture to see if anything interesting had fallen behind it. There was nothing.

He wondered if the apartment was reserved for prisoners like him, or just an ordinary living space. Speares had made it sound like he was something of a rarity.

It didn’t take long to scour the small space. The only thing of interest that he found in his search was a place behind the bed where the paint had chipped away. The bare rock was exposed, and something had been crudely etched into it. Unfortunately, it was a language Christopher didn’t recognize. It had letters beyond the roman alphabet, perhaps Greek or something Cyrillic.

By early afternoon, Christopher had again taken up his spot in the chair by the window, and there was a knock on the door. The black square on the wall beeped, and the door unlocked with a click. It swung inward to reveal Specialist Speares standing in the hallway.

“May I come in?”

“Seems like a silly thing to ask when I’m the one locked in, and you’ve got the key,” Christopher said.

She sighed. “I understand if you still feel like a prisoner here…”

“I am,” he interjected.

She plowed through. “…but I’m trying to be as civil as possible.”

“I appreciate it,” Christopher said, “but that doesn’t make it any less silly.”

“I suppose not.”

She still waited at the door.

“Come in,” Christopher said.

She entered, closing the door carefully behind her and sitting opposite him at the table.

“Should I just keep this as formal as possible then?”

“Up to you,” Christopher replied. “I’m not very formal. You’re the soldier.”

She shrugged. “Honestly, I wear the uniform, but a lot of my day-to-day work is with civilians.”

“Is anyone really a civilian around here?” he asked.

“Sure. How many uniforms do you see down on the street?”

“Not many.”

“Do you want to take a walk?” she asked. “I have a few follow-up questions to ask, but we could walk and talk.”

“I was enjoying the view from the window,” Christopher said, “but I suppose I had better take any opportunity for an outing that I can get.”

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