The Clarity of Cold Steel
Chapter 54

GORTHAM’S DEAD EYES jump afire, and for an instant, all I see in them is confusion and stark visceral terror. Nightmare stuff. Like a fish caught on a hook, he contorts spastically, whipping back and forth, struggling against his bonds, kicking, thrashing. And though all is silent, in my mind, I can hear him screaming.

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“Shh…” I place a flat palm against the window, trying to will him back to solace. “Relax, kid.”

A thin mist of crimson begins to permeate the fluid as he thrashes on. The ink-rods on his readout scurry like the legs of a scuttling beetle. “C’mon kid. Go back to sleep.” It does little. The boy thrashes and thrashes until spent, and I draw my gun and make to smash its butt against the glass but pause. Can he even live outside anymore? With all the tubes and scars and apparatus? Did they husk him?

Amidst my whirlwind of indecision, Gortham seizes to a halt as though gunshot, becoming still, drifting back off limp into comatose flotsam. The ink-rods on Gortham’s vat scritch-scratch slower now, slower, slower…

Footsteps ring out up the row and — “Damn” — I fumble my way between Gortham’s vat and an adjacent one. Tuck myself under a mass of accordion ductwork. Hunker. Wince. Sweat. Gortham’s readout calms to the occasional, unobtrusive twitch.

The footsteps draw near and snippets of conversation eventually become clear. “Over here…”

“…the severity of the…”

“…probably just a pressure relief valve…”

Crouched between two of the massive vats, I watch as a man marches past. He’s wearing a white lab coat, bifocals, and in his pale hands is a clipboard. He stops at Gortham’s vat, squints inside the window, jots something down. Frowning, he flips a page, reads it, inspects Gortham’s readout, carefully noting something. He turns his head to someone out of my field of vision. “We’ll have to increase the anesthetic dosage, doktor,” he says. “Should I—?”

“I think not, Terrence,” replies a firm voice. It softens then, lowering, a hushed coo as though soothing a spooked horse. “You must calm yourself, son. Hush child, return now to your netherworld of dreams.”

Amidst the nest of tangled duct and cord, I slide as gently as I can for a better angle. The man with the firm voice, the doktor, is a tall stately gentleman with a shock of white hair held in check by a set of brass goggles pushed above his forehead. His eyes are blue and fierce, set within a face of cured leather. His hand lies on the glass of Gortham’s vat, and he stares inside like he’s studying the constellations of some far off nebula.

“Huh?” Terrence peers down at his clipboard. “He seems alright otherwise.” He sighs. “The abrasions about the wrist have opened again. I’ll put a med-tech on it. Let’s see. The rigging checks out, though. His numbers are good, too, except for the episode, and it seems to have passed.”

“Nay.” The doktor stands up straight and turns around in a slow circle, his discerning eyes disconcerting, glaring with the malice of analytic purity. Can he see me? I think for an instant he does — I know it — but then he scans past and calls out into the ether. “Mister Shakteel!”

I freeze.

“Mister Shakteel, I have no time for games,” the doktor calls, “and neither have you. We found your blood in the stairwell. A hepatic injury. I could smell the bile. You haven’t much time, sir. And I can help you. I can save you!”

Boots pound in the distance. Heavy jackboots. Soldiers’ boots. I imagine I can hear the clatter of body armor and weapons amidst the clamor. They’re converging.

“Truly, sir—” the doktor’s voice carries in here, somehow ringing true, far into the confined night, “—the security measures of this facility are top notch, and so my kudos to you for circumventing them. An ultralight-glider in the night? Poetically elegant for its simplicity.”

A cramp starts to ratchet my flank, tensing, tearing. My eyes water.

The doktor continues on, “A security squad is triangulating your position as we speak. An onerous process, I know, but inexorable, inescapable. I beg you, sir, rather than yawping across to one another like heathens, I would prefer that you and I deal face to face, in a civilized fashion. The guards, I assure you, shall not offer such generous terms.”

The footsteps continue on down the row behind me then split off. Some are in the row ahead, Gortham’s row. Some are beyond.

The doktor takes Terrence’s clipboard and peruses it casually, flipping back a few pages before looking up. “It is my understanding that you’re a man known to exercise caution, but it does seem that bad luck has a habit of trailing you, sir.” He turns around in a circle, projecting his voice. “You are surrounded, no matter where you are, and the noose is tightening, if that makes any difference to you. If indeed, you still are alive. You’ve no doubt lost a considerable amount of blood.”

My Webley-Colt sits rigid in my sweaty palm.

A sigh comes next from the good doktor. “Please, Mister Shakteel,” he hands the clipboard back to Terrence, “allow me to appeal to your sense of decency. Not only is there expensive, indeed, irreplaceable equipment in here, each vat is entwined irrevocably to a human life. Life support systems. Back-up power systems. Filtration systems. I’m sure you have guessed. And you, like all of us, have your foibles, but you are no monster, Mister Shakteel, that much is clear.”

At that, I step out of the shadows, gun aimed at the doktor’s clear blue eyes. Terrence turns, jumps, drops his clipboard, staggers back, stopped only by the outstretched arm of the good doktor. Boots are still pounding, still spreading out all around.

“A stray shot misplaced here might cost hundreds of lives,” the doktor warns, bending over to pick up the clipboard. He rises. “Perhaps all.”

“Then I just won’t miss,” I say, staring down my sites.

“Good intentions, Mister Shakteel, the road to hell is paved full of them,” the doktor replies, handing the clipboard back to Terrence.

“Been rolling down that road with a gale wind at my six for a long piece.” I sniff, wipe my nose.

“But where are my manners?” He offers his hand until my glare withers it. “I am Doktor Marzipan, this facility’s director.” He places a hand on the shoulder of the man in the lab coat. “And this is Terrence, my chief technician. Mister Shakteel, I have some good news I’m sure you’ll find—”

“Stow it,” I cut him short. “I know enough.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“Doktor Arboghast gave a glowing recommendation.”

“I’m afraid if that ghoul had your ear…” He pulls his goggles off and begins polishing them with a sleeve. “Mister Shakteel, if I may, your file states that while you don’t object to firearms and their ilk or usage, your aim is not quite as precise as you or I would desire, considering our surroundings and the ample amount of time I’ve invested in building and maintaining them.” Terrence stands with his back to one of the vats, his hands up, quivering. “Relax, lad, Mister Shakteel is not going to shoot.”

“How can you be so sure?” I wonder aloud.

The boots are no longer pounding. The squad is close now, creeping, converging. Maybe they’re already in position with me in their crosshairs.

“Oh, but I am,” Doktor Marzipan says. “You see, the trouble with people is that most of us see ourselves as the hero of the story that is our life. Call it rationalization. Call it bias. Call it willful suspension of disbelief. Call it whatever you will.” He waves a hand. “The sad truth of the matter is that most of our stories are as devoid of heroes as they are of villains. Indeed, most stories are a flaccid shade of grey where folk meander with all the consequence of crustaceans scuttling across the sea bottom. We give meaning to events because we see them up close, and as such, they seem big to us. Magnified. Important. We give weight to both our triumphs and defeats, but truly they affect nothing, because we ourselves are nothing. Merely footnotes at best in the rise and fall of a flawed species. Tell me, do you see yourself as the hero of your own story?”

“Sure,” I aim my gun at his left eye, “why not? Now get the kid out of there.”

“This is his world now.” He lays an open palm on the vat. “Purgatory on earth. Even you must recognize that. The vat’s life support system is the only reason he’s allowed to continue this tepid exercise we call life.” Doktor Marzipan doesn’t shy from my aimed gun. If anything, it emboldens him. “The machine pumps his blood now, filtrates it, oxygenates it, circulates it. He is irrevocably tied to its operation and maintenance.”

“And you call that life?” I ask.

“I do indeed.”

“And if your roles were reversed?”

“You miss my point,” Doktor Marzipan deadpans, “entirely.”

“Get him out of there,” I demand, “or I’ll end it my way.”

“My good man,” he waggles a finger, tutting me like a schoolmarm, “that won’t even scratch the glass. It’s impact-resistant.”

“Resistant ain’t proof,” I remove the buzz-cutter grenade from my coat and hold it up, “and this’ll do the job just aces.”

“You’d kill him after all you’ve gone through? You’d kill us all?”

I flick the pin out with my thumb. It drops to the ground, tinking almost noiselessly.

“And what about the rest of them?” Doktor Marzipan raises both of his hands, stammers, takes a breath and calms himself, redoubling his effort. “Please, for a moment, just consider your actions since the start of your venture. Why, you’ve murdered seven constables of the law. Seven. Along with an entire family, I believe? And one priest. You’ve consorted with a variety of low women and even lower men. You were arrested, and rightfully so, for your crimes yet escaped by allowing an innocent man to take your place.” He gawks. “Innocent…” He lets the word hang there as crooked and awful as I’m sure Vihmal did. “Did you even know his name?”

“Sure.”

“As I understand, he was executed for his offense, was he not? I also understand that you instigated a gangland dispute between the Zulu Breakers and a group of Polynesians. I believe the body count in that little spat was upwards of fifteen, though there seems to be a dearth of accurate record keeping in Boneyard Bay. My-my, but you do exhibit a patent disregard for human life. And now you’re here making threats against a helpless boy. And with a weapon hailed for its brute indiscriminance.” He glances sidelong at Terrence. “Is that a word?”

Terrence, focused numbly on my gun, doesn’t answer.

“I ain’t the one snatching kids from off the street,” I counter. “Ain’t the one stealing them, piece by bloody piece and giving them to those you deem matter. I ain’t the monster.”

“Oh dear, I see it now.” His eyes narrow as he strokes his chin. “Yes, indeed. You paint me as the villain and yourself the hero of this story when in fact it is quite the opposite that is truth.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, how I do envy you, Mister Shakteel.” Doktor Marzipan chuffs a laugh. “Ignorance truly is a kind of strength, indeed. The saddest sort, perhaps, but undeniable. Unassailable. Can you truly not see? At this very moment, like Jesus before us, you stand at a crux in the destiny of humankind. Yet, for all the ills you’ve conceived in this debacle, you still have a chance at redemption. To be more than footnote in this thing we call human existence. It is a chance that comes along once an epoch if at all.” He pauses, catches my look, steps back. “What? You think me too grandiose? Nay. You are the fulcrum upon which the fate of mankind rests, and you can save it or you can destroy it.”

“And all this,” I scoff, “is saving them?”

“No, it is not,” he confesses, “it is saving some of them. Only some. But my hope is that it is saving enough.”

“Enough what?”

“Why,” he screws his face in confusion, “enough souls to preserve the lineage of mankind. The neoteric leprosy is worsening, Mister Shakteel. You must have seen it. More and more dying every day. Exponentially so. And those that manage to survive it? Irrevocably changed, and not for the better. Oh yes, we’ve tried to contain it and we have failed. Epically. I won’t bore you with our legion of failures. My legion.”

Specters emerge from the darkness all around, edging nearer. They’re all armed to the teeth and booted up in body armor. I can hear others, further off, taking up position.

“Tell your men to stand down.” I raise the buzz-cutter above my head. As one, the specters give pause, weapons still trained on me.

“They’re not my men.”

“Whoever’s they are.”

“I shall try.” Doktor Marzipan nods. “Gentlemen!” he announces as the man in the iron mask suddenly emerges from between two vats, like a bushman stomping without ceremony from the jungle, dusting off a shoulder, barely having to duck for being so short. Another pair of his men take up station at either end of the row we’re in. The man in the iron mask strides up to Doktor Marzipan.

“Stop,” I say.

He doesn’t listen, doesn’t obey, doesn’t acknowledge me in the slightest; he just marches past, black robes swishing.

Doktor Marzipan’s eyes go wide, his hands up instantly, one for each of us, begging the man in the iron mask to stop and me to not blow us all to kingdom went.

I listen.

The masked man doesn’t. He just takes up station beside the good doktor, leans in, says something low that I can’t hear.

“No, no, no,” Doktor Marzipan begs. “I can handle this.” He looks back to me. “Mister Shakteel, please, I beg of you, let me explain.”

I raise my gun and aim it at the man in the iron mask. “No need for explanations.” I cock back the hammer. “We’re done here.”

“Well, there’s gratitude for you.” The man in the iron mask straightens. “Go on, then. Do it.”

“No!” Doktor Marzipan grips the man in the iron mask by the shoulder, steps in front of him, shielding him. “Elias, please, enough have died already.” He looks toward me, imploring. “Mister Shakteel—”

Emotionless, the man in the iron mask considers the good doktor for a moment. “I appreciate the sentiment, dok, but I believe he’s fixed on killing you, too.”

“Mister Shakteel, you seem to be under the impression that Elias killed someone?” Doktor Marzipan’s says.

“I’ve killed lots of people, dok,” the masked man comments.

Red creeps in around my vision.

“He saved your family, Mister Shakteel,” Doktor Marzipan blurts.

“Ain’t in the mood for jokes, dok.”

“Sweet Jesus, it’s no joke! Please! Listen. Your family, they’re here. They’re safe! Your wife, your daughter, they’re alive. Elias was at your house when it exploded. But to watch for you. Because I bade him to. Word was you were causing a stir over Gortham’s disappearance.”

“And you wanted me iced.” The grenade’s suddenly heavy. “I know.”

“No, no. I sought to balm it. I sought to bring you here. To me. To help you.”

“You’re lying, dok.”

“Please. The horror that transpired? The fire? Another’s doing.” He lays a hand on the masked man’s shoulder, grips it tightly. “Elias personally pulled your wife out. His crew saved your daughter—”

“Bullshit.”

“Turn around, Mister Shakteel.”

“No.”

“It’s no trick,” he says softly. “Please, I beg of you, you have only to look.”

“You drop me, this grenade—” But I hazard a glance over my shoulder, blink, collapse to my knees. My arms are lead. Aashirya’s staring at me through the window of the vat behind me. I can’t feel my hands.

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