The Clarity of Cold Steel

THE OUT-RIGGERED SKIFF, the Zobuhle, powers along, trailing a banner of smoke as it chugs through the black surf, north along the eastern coast of the Grey Wastes. We cut through waves as keen as a schlager blade. The dead line the shores, meandering about, clotted together in formless herds. Dead eyes watch and toothless maws gape as we burn past.

Mortise Locke faded long ago into the distance, with only solemn waves to the east and the Grey Wastes to the west. The Superstition Mountains rise far inland to the northwest, capping the blasted landscape like a fossilized crown.

Brooklyn helms the skiff, standing nonchalant, smoking his ghost pipe, one hand on the wheel as he takes a hit, holds it, lets it go, trailing his own tail of smoke. “Never been this far north, my man,” Brooklyn admits, turning my way. “She-it. Never been this far anywhere.”

“You and me both, kid.” I’m sitting on the port side, holding onto the gunwale, turning green and grey and all shades in between, trying to hold down my lunch of mushroomed krill. I’ve no problem with boats; it’s the water beneath them I’m averse to. I stare at the outrigger, watching the black water churn white as we skim along.

Nikunj’s perched at the bow amidst crates of various and sundry items, but mostly booze and ghost. I’m a hypocrite, so kill me. He’s cleaning his guns, one by one. All of his guns. After a while, he starts polishing his resume. This one’s a familiar-looking kukri, a foot-long piece of gleaming nastiness I recall almost being shoved down my throat.

“Bloke’s just a doktor,” Brooklyn calls out over the engine’s roar, “think you’ll need all those?”

Nikunj looks up, grins wistfully, shakes his head, keeps polishing.

“We’re out of Mortise Locke’s jurisdiction up here which means there ain’t any laws to keep the savages civil,” I say, breathing slow and deep. Not that they’ve been doing me much good as of late. “And this is a working derrick. Still producing. Still chock full of dirty-fucking sandhogs and bloody-tough roughnecks. Bunch of rowdy shits as likely to stab you in the front as the back. And those are the blue collars on the level. Brahma only knows who’s running the show.”

Brooklyn glances over his shoulder Nikunj. “You been here before?”

Nikunj nods. “Been a while.”

“Didn’t know you were into coal mining.”

“He ain’t.” I look up.

“There it is.” Nikunj rises, pointing off north.

From far off, the coal derrick looms like some prehistoric beast emerging from the depths, its long sinuous neck rising, gazing toward the scorched sky. Upon eight massive ferron-crete pillars the beast stands, its body an octagonal barrel, countless windows gazing out to all points of the compass. Smoke churns out of four massive vents that crook out from its sides like wings or tentacles or something halfway in between. A yacht and an old Belgian trireme are surrounded by smaller craft, all docked off the floating quay, splaying off one of the derrick’s legs.

“Mother of monstrosity…” Brooklyn gapes in awe, turning the wheel.

“It’s an arcology, like the Wheel Cities,” Nikunj says. “Self-sustaining, well, somewhat sustaining. Always needs medical supplies. Spices. Booze.”

“I know the feeling.”

Brooklyn whistles low.

We make the Weyland in short shrift. The Zobuhle is yare, and Brooklyn knows his business, pouring on the noise, engine revving raw as the waves rise under a gale and the eight legs of the steel monstrosity loom near.

“Don’t go under it,” Nikunj warns and it soon becomes apparent why.

Beneath the body of the beast, from forty feet high, another titanic leg protrudes downward, plumbing the depths. A drill. A massive whirlpool churns from its epicenter, either from its spin or from the hole it’s created far below. I don’t know shit about coal mining and’d like to keep it that way. Waves whip concentric as a buzz saw, causing devil eddies spiking up around the ferron-crete legs, broadsiding the boat. Brooklyn throttles up and turns the Zobuhle nose first into the nastiness, and Nikunj, crouched like a panther on the hunt, springs off as we approach, landing onto the steel quay, lugging an umbilical of coiled rope flaking out behind.

I say nothing, trying not to puke, what with the swaying of the boat and reverse vertigo of staring straight up at the Jurassic monstrosity. And on top of it all, now I have the hiccoughs.

“Not the most convenient place for a business.” Brooklyn white-knuckles the wheel as he kills the throttle.

“Coal’s here, so they’re here.” Nikunj ties it off again at the stern and our buffeting lessens. Slightly.

Brooklyn’s over the side in the next instant, and I finally relent and puke into the briny deep. My two compatriots glance over their shoulders in either genuine concern or utter disdain. Most likely the latter.

Brooklyn mutters something under his breath that sounds like ’lubber’ but I don’t give it any heed.

I’m finally floundered to my feet, bile drizzling in strings from my mouth as lights begin to wink on from above. Looks like a swarm of fireflies buzzing in curiosity. I lift a crate and hold it out to Nikunj, try not to puke on it.

“What next?” Brooklyn asks.

“Just a minute.” Nikunj holds up a hand.

I drop the crate. Sit back. Breathe slowly.

A moment later and a roughneck’s rappelling down the leg of the beast, taking great looping jumps in descent. When he lands, he looks like a shitty version of one of Snow White’s seven dwarves, covered in sweat and oil stains, wearing a miner’s helm with a friction lamp blaring cyclops-wise above the brim.

I hold up a hand, block the glare. “We want to see Doktor Arboghast. We brought medical supplies.”

“What’s that now?” The roughneck cocks his head as he unties the rope from his harness and straightens his helm, softening the blare with a twist on its housing. “The good doktor? He don’t see no one less they’ve guts hanging outta them.”

“Whiskey,” I say, handing a crate of it to Nikunj. “Got it?”

Nikunj nods, starts a pile.

I grab a cold-crate and lift it.

“Eh?” the roughneck grunts. “What’s in the icebox?”

I smirk. “Just hope you don’t find out.”

“You fellas be having nigh on ten pieces trained on you from above, so no funny business, yah?” His accent is thick. English. Welsh. Something… “Yer all darkies.” He squints. “We don’t be having no darkies here. Whiskey or no.” Puts a hand over his heart. “Not my rules. Best be shoving off a’fore you find yer throats being summarily cut.”

“We brought other—” I start.

He shakes both hands. “Wax in yer ears, is it, son?”

Brooklyn pipes in, “He used to come here,” cocks his head toward Nikunj.

Nikunj takes another crate, adds it to the stack.

“That so?” The roughneck’s hands are on his hips, chest puffed out. His fists are the size of my head. “A miner, is ya?”

Nikunj shakes his head. “No.” Keeps stacking.

“Were you in the rough trade, then?”

“He was the rough trade,” I say.

“Hmmm…” The roughneck leans in for a closer look. “Ain’t got no scars.”

“Cause he doesn’t let people stab him in the face,” I explain helpfully. “You might have heard of him. Nikunj Shakteel?”

“Eh?” He steps back, takes a hard look. “Naw. Piss on that.” He spits on the dock. “If I had a nickel for every wog claimed he was Shakteel, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be … somewhere else.” Despite his poetic words, he takes a harder look at my brother. His eyes narrow. “Huh, you do look like him, but don’t you all fellows look alike now?”

“We surely do,” I say. “My brother’s looking for a match. Any takers amongst you salty dogs?”

“Any takers, he says.” He grins a knowing grin. “You might be barking up the wrong tree, but Skinner’s top man now and you don’t be wanting no piece of him. No one does.”

“Not having the top man fighting regular’s bad for business,” I say.

“And morale.” The roughneck nods emphatically.

I thumb towards Nikunj. “Happiness is just a knife’s edge away.”

“Well…” The roughneck paws at his tangled beard, nods, shoves two fingers into his mouth and whistles. “Hey now!” he hollers up. “I’ve a mouthy wog down here says he wants in on the rough trade.” He puts his two hands to his mouth. “Says he’s Nikunj Shakteel!”

“Bollocks!” someone calls down.

“He’s washed up!” another calls.

“Who’d he fight last?”

The roughneck crosses his arms. “Think they be wanting to see yer resume.”

Nikunj draws the polished kukri from behind his belt and offers it. “It’s Mainlo’s,” he says, “from the Boneyard.”

The roughneck half-asses a knuckle to his forehead as he takes the blade reverently and inspects it, “I heard o’ him,” turning it over in his calloused hands. He nods, holds it out over his head to the audience above. “It’s the little beastie’s from the Boneyard!”

The waves break against the iron beast’s legs as we wait.

Then comes a voice pealing from on high, “Well-a-now, you’ll be sending that poor dead fucker up right quick, won’t ye?”