The Clarity of Cold Steel

Chapter 41.

“WHAT’D HE MEAN?” Brooklyn calls out over the cacophony of the engine screaming and the thud, thud, thud of waves chopping rapid fire into the bow. It’s dark and misting hard and we can’t see shit, nothing but ten feet in front of us, even with my phosphorescent night scope blazing. Despite our glooming blindness, Brooklyn’s pushing the boat full throttle.

“Think you might want to slow down?” I’d be green if it weren’t so bloody dark out.

Brooklyn shakes his head, turns, stares out past me and over the stern. Nods. “They’ve a few whalers skipping in our wake yet.” He takes a hit of his ghost pipe. “Best keep hopping.”

“You can see through this ink?”

“Naw, man, but my amadlozi’s telling me they’re still on our six.” The wind whistles past us.

“I’m always comforted by drug-induced hallucinations.”

Brooklyn splits a grin, keen and true. “They’re far back, sure enough, but still coming. Now what’s this Holy Grail ruckus?”

“Arboghast was making a comparison,” I call out.

Brooklyn stares blankly at me, behind him.

“Could you turn around?” I gasp. “Look where you’re going maybe?”

“Can’t see shit either way, so what’s the difference?”

“Are you fucking serious?” I gawk at Nikunj for help.

He just shakes his head and smirks, glancing down at a compass in hand. “We’re aces.” He gives a thumbs up to Brooklyn who beams. Guess who found his new idol?

“Aces are technically ones,” I hiss. Then I give up. Even if he were about to shit a brick, Nikunj wouldn’t let on, and especially not in front of an audience. I clamber up next to Brooklyn, point ahead of us. “Eyes forward, Skipper. The Holy Grail’s a Jesus-thing. A Catholic-thing.”

Brooklyn just raises an eyebrow.

“Last cup of Christ?” Hell, he’s a Zulu wharf rat, so what the hell’s he know? “Ever heard of it?”

Brooklyn shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Well, doesn’t seem like you’re missing much,” I concede. “Basically, a bunch of shitty, old white people’ve wanted this grail for a long time. It’s a big ticket item—”

“What Arboghast meant by Holy Grail,” Nikunj cuts me off, “is that Gortham’s a universal donor.” He leans forward, nursing his shoulder, still fidgeting. “Any organ in him can go into anyone else.” I’d put a sling on his arm and swathed it with some rope. “Without pills. Without issues.” He took a bullet when we were making our dramatic exit from the Weyland. A flesh wound. Entry and exit. Seems the so-called lynch mob was more intent on just murdering us straight up rather than actually going through the onerous motions of actually hanging us from a yardarm. You’d be surprised how many people wrench their backs lynching people. Ain’t all fun and games.

Brooklyn whistles, bobbing his head along to the beat of the boat skipping across water. “That’s some serious shit, my man. Heavy coin.”

“You said it.”

“And your man Chirag?” Brooklyn says. “He had it read. But came up snake eyes again.”

I nod. “He certainly has a habit.”

“And your liver deal…”

“Dead and being buried as we speak.”

Nikunj crawls forward toward us, fidgeting still with the sling. “But who’s the one pulling the strings?” He snarls, tears the sling off, casts it into the dark, watching it go with a savage smile. “That’s the question. So what do we know?”

“We know it’s someone topside,” Brooklyn offers.

Nikunj nods. “And tied to the church, aye?”

“Like a noose around the neck.”

“Someone big, too,” Brooklyn says. “Someone righteous big.”

“I know who it is,” I say abruptly cause suddenly I do.

All eyes are on me for the big reveal. “It’s the pope.” I smack the gunwale. “It has to be. Fits the profile. He’s topside and righteous big. Church’d do anything to preserve him. And he’s got a bum ticker. Archbishop Carmody told me as much when I met him. Didn’t set off any bells, though.” Hell, maybe I just didn’t bloody want it to.

“Tall order,” Nikunj grumbles.

“You ain’t kidding.”

“We still need to get topside,” Brooklyn offers, ghost smoke sliding from his nostrils.

“True.” Nikunj moves his arm, testing it.

“You’re gonna open it up again,” I warn.

He ignores me. Heroes are the worst patients.

“How much did Clipper say it was?” Brooklyn screws up his face as he does some mental math. “Two hundred? Two hundred for a legit ride?” He shakes his head. “Two hundred’s a lot of—”

“Coin’s not the issue,” Nikunj says, leaning against the gunwale, kicking a foot up. “We couldn’t bribe our way on under any circumstances.”

“Especially as a wanted felon,” I crack.

“Even more wanted than you.” Nikunj smirks my way.

“Can’t let me win anything, can you?”

“So money ain’t the issue.” Brooklyn looks behind him as he throttles back and the Zobuhle revs down, starts chugging along at a more manageable pace. “They’re long gone now. We’re sure there’s no way on that train?”

“Nope.”

“There’s always a way,” Nikunj says, “but on short notice…”

“What about Clipper?” Brooklyn offers.

“They wouldn’t let him up that first time.”

“They wouldn’t let him donate organs,” Brooklyn corrects. And he’s right. “Maybe he could get up there for … something else?”

“Sure. What’d Brumson give for odds on him living?” I spit over the side. “Clipper’s done, kid. He’s a good chap, but he almost bought it last time. And we almost bought it cause of him.”

“Clip’s the only white cat I know,” Brooklyn blurts.

“Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”

“Can we hire someone else?”

Nikunj looks at me, shrugs. “Might be the only way. How about … what was his name? That bloke from the strikebreaker inquiry. He owes you.”

“Halbeck?” I shake my head. “He doesn’t owe me that much, at least that’s what he’d say, especially considering our collective toxicity levels with regards to law enforcement. Not to mention, the man’s a bounty hunter.” I let it sink in. “Can you think of any fugitives he might have in his sites?”

Nikunj concedes the point slowly, painfully, which is the only way he concedes anything.

“Look, this just turned into a suicide mission,” I add for clarification. “So hiring anyone is out unless we hit up some psych ward.”

“Naw, man,” Brooklyn says, “we ain’t going up against the pope. It’s just a snatch and grab. So forget him. Keep him out of the equation.”

“Make no mistake,” I pounce, “if Gortham’s heart’s on the pope’s Christmas list, we are going up against the pope, so as much as I’d like to, we can’t keep him out of the equation. Not to mention…”

Brooklyn takes a hit, looks my way. “What?”

“It’s been two weeks.” I sit back in my chair, fold my arms across my chest, a sour taste in my gob after repeating pretty much exactly what Chirag said to me. “Whatever they were going to do to Gortham’s probably already been done. They probably husked him. Tossed him. Incinerated him. Whatever it is they do.”

“So what? You saying we chasing a ghost?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”