“I’m sorry for your loss. From this moment on, you should consider me your father, just as I will consider you my son.”
Antares had carted him to the Office of the Police Commissioner of Menkar. The chief police commissioner, a moustachioed man named Canopus Corvus, had written a brief report on Antares’s description of the human-merpeople altercation. A reporter from the newspaper Menkar Daily had simultaneously interviewed Antares for an article. Meanwhile, Doctor Navi, summoned by Antares, had stitched and bandaged the gash along Izar’s jaw.
By the time Antares had taken Izar home, the sky had been bright with morning light. He had taken Izar straight to the backyard. Saiph had been playing in the grass, his hair like smooth, heavy waves of sand—just like Antares’s at the time. Izar had gleaned at a glance that Saiph was Antares’s son. Two years older than Izar, standing a head taller, Saiph had crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Izar. Meanwhile, Antares had knelt in the grass, unclasped a large wooden box, and turned it over. An assortment of wood blocks had tumbled out—squares, rectangles, triangles, circles, semicircles. “Build me a replica of our home, boys,” Antares had demanded.
Izar’s shoulders had slumped with tiredness, his jaw had throbbed mercilessly, but he’d sensed that Antares was not a man to tolerate protest. He’d looked at the house, memorized its lines, then commenced his construction. He and Saiph had completed their models at the same time. Izar’s had been square, three stories high, as tall as himself, with semicircular windows like half-open eyes, and a roof embedded with a circular skylight; the edifice had been a precise replica of the house. Saiph’s structure had risen to his knees, its shape haphazard, its lines crude; it had borne no resemblance to this home or any other. “Excellent work, Izar,” Antares had said, beaming.
Excellent work, Izar—perhaps Antares would pronounce the words today as well, when Izar told him of Castor. Izar knocked on the glass door. Antares and Saiph jerked their heads in his direction simultaneously. Izar flashed his identification card against the scanner outside the door and entered.
Striding through a fog of cigar smoke, he pumped Antares’s and Saiph’s hands in greeting. He then settled into the chair next to Saiph, such that both he and Saiph were facing Antares from across Antares’s grand mahogany desk. Antares poured him a glass of whisky and lit him a cigar. Izar took the glass and grasped the thick, dirt-brown stick between two fingers. He didn’t care for cigars—he was driven by fumes from his underwater-fire work, not smokes—but cigars and whisky formed a ritual at their weekly meetings, as fundamental as the handshakes preceding them.
He glanced out the thirtieth-floor window. Skyscrapers loomed over Menkar’s shores as bright, glassy rectangles interspersed with long-fingered palm trees. Located along the southeastern coast of America, Menkar was among the largest cities in the country, and, in Izar’s opinion, the greatest. He had not been born in Menkar but wished he had been, for he loved the dry, dusty city.
He turned back to face Antares, who was sitting deep in his leather chair, a cigar dangling out of the side of his mouth, steel-gray eyes gleaming beneath tufty gray eyebrows. “Updates, vice presidents,” Antares commanded.
The atmosphere changed subtly but perceptibly; by mentioning their titles, Antares transformed from their father to their boss. Izar and Saiph sat straighter and patted the buttons of their pin-striped suit jackets. Saiph began with his update first, as always.
“In the last week, I terminated a dozen men whose roles had become redundant. I fired another five who disagreed with me.”
“Good.” Antares nodded, sipping his whisky. “Everyone’s a resource, boys, and every resource has a shelf life. Now, what’s the update on Ocean Protection?”
“I’m continuing to keep an eye on the organization,” Saiph replied. “They’ve been rallying dozens of people to their protests outside our building, with signs that say we’re murdering the oceans.”
“What have those loonies taken to calling the three of us these days?”
“The Trio of Tyrants.” Saiph scoffed.
“Those nutcases would have us believe that just because the upper half of the merperson body resembles ours,” Antares said, “they are equal to us rather than inferior. But regardless of Ocean Protection’s idiotic beliefs, we would be wise to not underestimate them. Their supporters keep growing, not to mention their media coverage. So long as we avoid environmental fiascos like oil spills, though, they won’t have anything specific to rally against.”
“Agreed,” said Saiph.
“And your update, Izar?” Antares asked. Izar wondered whether he’d imagined it, but a note of hope seemed to have lifted Antares’s voice at the end.
Izar leaned forward in his chair, his fingers tense around his cigar. He’d waited six long years to make his announcement, but now that the time had come, he found he did not have the words. “Castor’s ready,” was all he managed.
Antares bolted out from behind his desk and squashed Izar in a hug.
The smell of smoke was strong on Antares, every pore exuding it—it made Izar think viscerally of Castor. He clutched Antares back and breathed deeply, feeling that a massive weight had been lifted off him. So heavily had Castor weighed on his mind that it was as though the twenty-foot-tall robot had been standing on him all these years. But every failure and disappointment Izar had undergone during his underwater-fire mission, each of the thousands of hours he’d spent on Castor—were all worth it, just for this one embrace from his father. He would do anything, invent anything, even another moon, to win Antares’s approval.
When Antares returned to his chair, Izar fell into his own seat, dazed with happiness.
“Thirty-five years ago, when I was younger than both of you,” Antares said, “I started Ocean Dominion, with no more than the spare change in my pocket. For almost all of Ocean Dominion’s existence, the company was a fishing enterprise. Then, two years ago, you, Izar, tripled our revenues when you created our second division, Oil. Our stock price multiplied tenfold in response, such that it sits at an astounding one thousand dollars today.”
A warmth flooded Izar’s chest.
“From the company’s very first days, I dreamt of one day plundering the oceans for precious metals and minerals. Today, you’re making my dream a reality, Izar. You’re leading us single-handedly to our third bloodline of business. Your underwater-fire breakthrough will enable us to mine for jewels not in depleted mountains but in the depths of the seabed. Think of how much more valuable a pound of gold or diamonds is in comparison to a pound of oil, let alone a pound of fish. We’re going to make trillions of dollars, boys—trillions—all thanks to you, Izar.”
The glow on Izar’s face rivaled that on the tip of his cigar, resulting more from Antares’s praise than from the prospect of wealth beyond measure. Izar did not particularly care for more money, for there was nothing in his life he would change with it. He viewed excess wealth as an umbrella—useful on rainy days but otherwise unworthy of much contemplation.
Turning to Saiph, Antares asked, “Is Castor’s patent ready?”
“Yes.” Saiph’s teeth flashed white below chiseled cheekbones. “The Patent Office originally gave Ocean Dominion a patent for one year, but I paid an acquaintance to pull some strings and extend it to two years.”
The patent was the one area of Castor’s life in which Izar had played no role. Antares had assigned the matter to Saiph from the beginning, to Izar’s relief. Managing relationships with external stakeholders, associates, and allies was Saiph’s territory. Saiph inherently knew whom to talk to, how to get things done, how to keep the right people dancing about his thumbs.