The Clarity of Cold Steel

“SO, THIS MASKED MAN took our son?” Catia ventures softly. She doesn’t sound convinced. She sounds like we just told her robotic dinosaurs came from the far future through a wormhole and took Gortham back to repopulate a dying race. Hell, I’m having trouble with it, too.

The hold of the Iphigenia could still be described as a shit hole.

“It certainly looks that way, ma’am,” Nikunj says. He insisted on coming, on meeting with the family. Said he felt it was his duty. He’s like that, bound by mores and principle. Asshole.

“Do you know what it is they want with him?” Parth asks as he grips Catia’s shoulders in his rough hands, holding onto her for dear life. He looks like he’s been through the wringer. Twice. They both do. I’d guess neither one’s slept in the two weeks I’ve known them. I often have that effect on people.

“We think Gortham is a perfect or near perfect match for someone topside.” I loosen my collar with a finger. “The Gear Cities.” Ain’t every day you have to tell someone that organ ghouls have stolen their son. I may be a cold hard heartless case, but even I don’t enjoy hammering nails into hope’s coffin. “Vatican, most likely.”

“But you don’t know who?”

“Not yet.”

Parth, looming over Catia’s shoulder, bows his head, grumbles silently, says nothing. A rat scurries in the corner.

“Just how are you going to get up there to find him?” Catia asks.

“Well…” I pause.

“You are still going after him, aren’t you?”

“We’re working on that, ma’am,” Nikunj says. He, Brooklyn, and I have already wracked our brains on possible schemes to sneak our carcasses topside, and they all came up snake eyes. Two dozen crackpot ideas and the best we can come up with is, to quote our fourteen-year-old co-conspirator, “really-really good disguises.”

“You need money,” Parth says, “that’s why you came.”

I perk up. “Now that you mention it—”

Nikunj punches my arm.

Parth’s holding up a finger as he’s suddenly marching in determination, parting through Nikunj and myself. “I’ll see what I can scrape together.” He starts rummaging through a foot trunk on the other side of the hold.

Catia frowns, shakes her head, gazing on after her husband, back bent as he rummages. “My husband’s a fool.”

“There are worse things to be,” I say.

“There are better, too,” Catia murmurs. “Whatever he has squirreled away in that trunk, it won’t be enough. It won’t be near.” She fixes me a look, serves one up to Nikunj as well. “Will it?”

“No,” Nikunj straightens, “it won’t.”

“My boy is dead, isn’t he?” Catia’s voice cracks as she glances over at her husband, her eyes brimming, threatening to pour over. “That’s why you came, isn’t it? You don’t want money. You don’t need money. You want to stop looking. This is too much for you. It’s too much for anybody. And you want us to give you our blessing.”

“No ma’am,” Nikunj counters.

“Then you’re both fools, too.”

“I’ll not argue on that score, Mrs. Khanna,” I step in “but we’re here because we felt it necessary to keep you apprised of any developments.” I glare sidelong at Nikunj. I can be professional, too. “So that’s why we came. We don’t want your money. We don’t want your say. We’re here as a courtesy.”

“A courtesy?”

“Sure.” I nod. “Your brother-in-law’s the one that hired us.” I lay a hand on her shoulder and she doesn’t recoil. “I’ll brace him for dough. We just wanted to let you know what was going on, good or bad. We felt it was your right. Our duty.”

“The Gear Cities…” Catia’s hand trembles into a fist at her mouth. “What is it they do up there, anyways?”

“Whatever the hell they want,” I answer.