The Clarity of Cold Steel

WHEN THE GREAT PLAGUE came and slaughtered the world, one city stood ready. And in the aftermath only one city was left standing. Mortise Locke, the Machine City, the Plague City. Refugees from all over the world trickled in on barges and cogs and steamboats. And the gateway to the vaunted city was through Boneyard Bay.

Refugees from the furthest reaches of the wide world moored off the coast of the Plague City, paying their way in, bribing their way in, fighting their way in. For some, for many, the gateway to the city remained, and to this day remains, forever barred. And for those that couldn’t somehow connive their way inside its towering plague walls, they dropped anchor and settled here, choking off the bay and the quays and the warehouse districts, making their homes on the water, preying on newcomers, oldcomers, one another, a clan of starving hyenas surviving on scraps and dregs and by the atavistic decree of communal cannibalism.

I set foot on the Cartagena about an hour after the fighting’s died.

The seagulls are somehow silent. The only noise is someone screaming below decks. A woman. Mac Heath? Sable? I can’t tell.

A pair of Maori sling a dead Bowler between them hammock style, give it the ole’ “One … two … three—” and the Bowler’s heaved, soaring for a dead second like an eagle diving, the tails of his greatcoat flapping in the fall. He crashes like a stone into the briny black. Now, the only dead left aboard are the Maori. In clean rows they lie along the gunwales, eyes closed, hands on breasts, horrible wounds gaping like the mouths of eldritch beasts, erupted from within at horrid angles, bloodless, filled only with meat and shards of jagged-toothed bone.

I wait as five Maori warriors kneel, holding vigil on deck. Tangihanga, the Maori ritual for the dead. Five sets of eyes rise, grim and discerning, as I bow low and somber. Some of them bear slings and swathed arms; all bear bruises and cuts. Some are stitched shut, others gaping.

One man stands, a wide chap, taller than me by an inch or two and twice as wide. Doesn’t look like much of it’s fat, either. In his hand’s a mere, a greenstone war club made for splitting heads. The bloke wipes a swathe of blood off the club with his hand, shakes it hard, snapping, spotting the deck with red. The tusk of some long dead animal is pierced through his nose. “Bad timing, Mister Shakteel,” the Maori Chieftain rumbles.

The screaming below decks continues. I try to ignore it. It ain’t easy.

I’ve dealt with this bloke before. A nothing case concerning cannibalism and a sausage factory from about five years ago. It ended amicably. Meaning I didn’t summer that year in the Oscar-Johnson Sausage Factory. He’s a hard cat. “We’ll have to agree to disagree,” I say.

He grunts assent then starts forward, a cast-iron-yet-mundane determination to kill me simmering in his eyes. All business, this one. He gave me one chance, and I blew it.

“There’s a gang of Zulu Breakers set to descend on you,” I say.

He pauses midstride, takes a long rasping breath in through his bone-pierced nose, glares me down, waits. From afar, he was frightening. Up close, he’s terrifying. The wails below decks reach a fever pitch.

“You’re surrounded.”

His eyes narrow. The screaming below abruptly stops.

Silence reigns.

“I ain’t lying.” I thumb over my shoulder at a tangle of neighboring vessels. A phalanx of tall wraithlike silhouettes stands at formation across the decks, silent as specters, steel-tipped spears and hide-bound shields in hand. “There’s about a hundred of them.”

The other four Maori are up now, their vigil fucked. By me. One of them sticks two fingers in his mouth, whistles high, whistles hard.

“Ain’t afraid o’ dying.” The Maori Chieftain spits red.

“Well, you’re keen on your way,” I say. “Good news is, I brokered a deal for you.”

“You what?” Feet pound below deck. “Who the hell you think you are?”

“Best deal I could.” I smile. Nod. It doesn’t seem to help.

“Fuck off.” His four are at his side. With the more coming.

“Ten percent of the annual take of the establishment is yours if you take the high road.” I glance over my shoulder. “In perpetuity.” The Zulu Breakers watch from on high, their chieftain in the middle outstripping them all for height. “All for just taking a little stroll.” I don’t see Brooklyn amongst them. Smart lad.

“If you ain’t noticed, we paid hard for this.” Three more Maori toughs emerge from below decks, line up behind their chieftain. “We earned.”

“You’ll pay harder if you don’t leave.”

“Threats.” Another four scramble from a bulkhead. One’s toting a bang-stick warspear, twelve-gauge cartridges polymered to the end.

“No,” I raise a finger, “simple arithmetic. And it doesn’t make a difference to me. I’ll get what I want whether you’re dead or not. Savvy?”

“You’ll be first to go.” The Maori Chieftain nods, licks his lips, raises a fist.

“You’re damn straight.” I’ve got a cushion of twenty feet. “All banged up as you are, I’ll take any one of you in a footrace.” Wish it was forty. “Thing is, though, the Zulu Breakers are twice as fast as me.” But I’ll be motivated. “And they’ll be coming.” I scratch my neck, my sweaty neck. “You know, when the bloody Brits fought them, they considered the Zulu cavalry cause they’re so gods-damned fast.” I stand stock still, breathing slow, fighting the quivers, trying to look as solid as stone when a light tickle from a breeze in actuality’s liable to send me toppling. “Now, you can get a fair slice of something for nothing, or you can get nothing for everything.” I cross my arms. “Your choice.”

Bellowing a war cry, the Maori Chieftain and his men drop into crouched stances, feet pounding as one on the deck. Rhythmically, they begin to shout as they begin a haka war-dance. Traditionally, not a good sign.