The Black Lung Captain (54 page)

Frey stumbled away, hunched over and winded. Grist broke off in the other direction, but his momentum carried him into Trinica, who was retreating towards the back of the sanctum, seeking cover. Grist bowled her over and they went down in a mess of limbs, fighting one another for purchase. Grist came up first, dragging Trinica with him, but he didn't let her go. Instead he wrapped one thick arm round her throat - the one carrying the sphere - and with the other he drew his pistol and shoved it into her ribs. He backed away towards cover, with Trinica as his shield.

Grist's men had been decimated by the surprise attack. The last of them were being slaughtered by Bess or picked off by gunfire. The golem had just seized one of Grist's crew, and was raising him triumphantly over her head with both hands, ready to fling him to his death. Only Grist's bosun, Crattle, was stil in the fight, hiding behind a bulet-riddled lectern, and the remainder of his life could be counted in seconds.

Frey saw, with a sudden flood of horror, what would happen next. He fought to drag in a breath.

In moments, it would be over. Grist was dead meat. He didn't have a chance. They'd turn their weapons on him, and gun him down, and that would be that.

But to get to Grist, they had to go through Trinica.

He found air at last. Sucked it in and yeled.

'STOP!'

His voice rang out with a volume and authority he hadn't realised he possessed. Friend and enemy alike froze, fingers on triggers.

Silence fel, broken only by the crescendo wail of Grist's crewman as he flew across the room to crunch against the far wal.

Bess made a bubbling noise in her chest that somehow managed to convey an apology.

Al eyes went to Frey. Grist stood where he was, his gun in Trinica's ribs. Crattle stayed in hiding, hardly daring to believe his reprieve. The crewmen of the
Ketty Jay
waited expectantly.

He knew he should let his men loose. He had the power. Kil them al, Trinica too. Be done with al the bitterness and betrayal. It would be so damned good to see her die right now.

But he couldn't. Even with al the anger and hate inside him. This woman was a milstone around his neck, and yet he couldn't bring himself to get rid of her. She was his penance and his punishment. Of al the women he'd wronged, she was the only one that counted. She'd carried his child, and kiled it too. Like a vengeful ghost, she folowed him out of the past, taking on whichever shape best enabled her to hurt him. He'd never be free.

He wanted her gone. He so desperately wanted her out of his life. But she'd never leave him alone until she was dead, and he couldn't handle that eventuality.

Her absence from the world would rob him of something vital, something he needed in order to keep on going. Without it, al that was left was that holow feeling, the dreadful, indefinable
lack
that had inspired this whole sorry escapade in the first place.

A grin spread across Grist's face. The advantage was lost. Grist had figured him out. 'Thought so,' he said. He looked at Frey, down at Trinica, and then back to Frey again. 'Ain't that nice?'

Trinica watched him, her face blank. Was she afraid? Was she silently pleading with him to save her? No. Perhaps she simply didn't care if she lived or died. But how could he tel, in the end? How could he trust any emotion from her ever again?

He waved at his men. 'Let 'em go,' he said.

Malvery had his shotgun aimed squarely at Trinica and Grist. His eyes flicked from the gunsight to Frey.

'You what?' he asked, his voice flat with disbelief.

'You heard me.'

'You can't let them walk away,' said Crake. 'Not with that sphere. We'l need it if there's any hope of undoing what's been done.'

'Nobody's undoin' a bloody thing,' said Grist. 'We're walkin' out of here, sphere an' al, or your Cap'n's little missy gets a bulet.'

'Cap'n,' said Malvery, his voice tight with suppressed anger. 'She's a lying, backstabbing bitch and she ain't worth it.'

'I know, Doc,' said Frey. 'No one knows it better than me. But if any one of you puls his trigger, it's the last thing you'l do as a crewman on the
Ketty Jay.'

It wasn't often he had to threaten his crew nowadays. But they needed to know that he meant it. This wasn't a moment for dissent.

Malvery glared at him hard, and for a moment Frey thought he might actualy do it: just blow them both away, Trinica and Grist alike, and take the consequences after. But then he spat on the ground, swore the foulest oath in his armoury, and stepped aside. Bess and the others folowed his lead, clearing the way for Grist, Crattle and Trinica to get to the stairs.

'Get out of my damn sight,' Frey told Grist and his prisoner alike.

They left without another word. Grist circled close to the sanctum wal, keeping Trinica between himself and the guns trained on him. Crattle stayed close, looking grey, shaken by his close shave. Trinica didn't take her eyes from Frey's the whole time. He didn't flinch from her gaze. Damn her. Let her know that he was unbowed, even after this. It was through his mercy that she lived. She'd better know that.

Then they were gone, up the stairs and away. Weapons were lowered. Malvery kicked a chair to pieces in frustration. Frey closed his eyes and took a breath.

Trinica was gone. He felt lighter already.

Crake went to Jez, who was stirring again. She seemed to have been hit harder than the rest of them by the effect of the sphere. Even now, she was dazed and distant. Frey joined them and hunkered down alongside.

'You alright, Jez?'

'I'm okay, Cap'n, I'm . . .' she trailed off, then looked around in alarm. 'They're here,' she said. 'The Manes. They're here.'

'Then we shouldn't be,' said Frey. He got to his feet. After al that had passed between him and Trinica, it felt good to deal with something he could understand.

A crew. Orders. Action. 'I've had just about enough of this whole bloody mess. Grist, Trinica, the sphere . . . damn 'em al to a cold grave. What's done is done.

We tried to stop it and failed. The people of this city can take care of themselves. We're not paid to be anyone's guardians.' He surveyed his crew. 'Back to the
Ketty Jay.
We're gone.'

'First sensible thing I've heard out of your mouth for a month,' Malvery grumbled.

Crake drew Frey's cutlass from his belt and tossed it to him. 'Here you go, Captain. We stopped off in the hangar to pick up our things after Bess broke us out.'

Frey caught it. His face was reflected in the blade. Grim and stony.
That
was the Frey he wanted to be now. Frey the Heartless. Frey the Invincible. Frey the Untouchable.

That's right
, he thought.
Captain Frey. You've got your craft and you've got your crew. Anyone else can go hang.

He thrust his cutlass into his belt and stalked out of the sanctum.

Thirty-Six

Harkins Takes To The Air —

The Streets Are Overrun — A Fortuitous Encounter

Harkins had spent a lot of his life being afraid. He knew fear in its many forms, from the blind panic of a gunfight to the poisonous, chily unease that he felt whenever he tried to have a conversation with anyone. But this was a different order entirely. This was a crushing, brutal, animal terror that bypassed the conscious mind altogether and sent wild sparks down every nerve. He couldn't move and yet he was desperate to flee. He wanted to crumple into a bal but he couldn't take his eyes off what was happening.

The Manes were coming.

The landing pad was mayhem. Men ran back and forth, yeling oaths, howling at one another to get into their craft, get airborne, get out of here. Tractors were abandoned with cargo stil in the trailer. Pilots threw themselves into cockpits and took off without a care for nearby aircraft. Fighters flew overhead, dangerously low. The space above the pad was ful of lumbering huls and speeding wings. A crash was only a matter of time.

Beyond, and al around, the dreadnoughts were descending on Sakkan. They sank out of the maelstrom, through the eerie half-light. Black, ragged iron monsters, a dozen or more. The damned ghosts of a frigate fleet, come from the land of the dead. As they neared the ground, ropes snaked from their decks. The Manes swarmed down them, scampering head-first, hand over hand. They wore human shape, but they were far from human. They dropped to the ground like spiders and were lost from sight.

Jez is one of
them?
I don't believe it! I won't believe it!

The thought of Jez brought his mind out of a tailspin, enough to pul a coherent thought together. He should run. He should get in the Firecrow and flee while he stil had the chance.

But what about Jez? What about his plan to rescue her? What about being brave?

Taking on Grist's gang single-handed would have been easy compared to this. The Manes were dropping al over the city, infesting the streets that lay between him and her. Trying to reach her would be suicide. And then he'd
still
have to take on Grist's gang singlehanded.

It was too much for his fragile courage. An impossible task. He felt his resolve failing under the weight of the Manes' presence. But even though he couldn't bring himself to go to her rescue, he wouldn't run out on her either. He couldn't do that. He was a coward and he knew it, but there were limits. If he left now, he wouldn't be able to return. The shame would be too much, even for a man who lived his life ashamed.

What could he do, then? What could he do?

Then, as he looked franticaly this way and that, he caught sight of something. Aircraft in the distance, heading
towards
Sakkan instead of away. They came from the east, beneath the black clouds, silhouetted by a low, glowering sun. Frigates, by the size. Maybe ten of them, flying in formation, approaching at top speed. There was only one organisation he knew of that could summon ten frigates and have them fly with that kind of discipline.

The Navy! The Navy is here!

His heart lifted a little. A ray of hope. How had they got here so fast? Wel, he wasn't in any mind to complain. The Navy was here. There would be a battle over Sakkan, as wel as in the streets.

The realisation spurred him, and he found the strength to move. On the ground, he was worse than useless: a pathetic shel of a man. But in the sky, ah,
there
he wasn't so meek. Up there, his enemy respected him. And if they didn't, they soon learned to.

He needed the safety of the cockpit. He could seal himself inside. Within the protective canopy of windglass, he was the master of his own smal world. There, he had a chance. If he had to stay, if there was to be a fight, then he'd take it to the air.

A siren had begun to sound in the distance, a low, sinister yowl that floated over the rooftops. It was joined by another, from the far side of the city. He ran for the Firecrow, and was halfway up the ladder to the cockpit when there was a shriek of metal from behind and above him. A wave of heat and pressure shoved him in the back. He looked over his shoulder to see two fighter craft spinning towards the ground, trailing flame. A cacophony of screams rose from the far side of the pad. The crashed fighters hit the ground, ploughing through men and aircraft alike, sending up blooming fountains of fire in their wake.

Harkins scrambled into the cockpit, puled the canopy shut, and activated the aerium engines. He was usualy obsessive about pre-flight checks, but not this time. He was desperate to be off the ground, to get up into the freedom above. He flicked the thrusters to ready and grabbed the flight stick.

A moment. Something was amiss. For an instant, he thought he caught a whiff of a familiar scent. The foul musk of that damned cat, that it sprayed al over the
Ketty Jay
to mark its territory.

Then he looked down into his lap, and realised that his crotch was sodden in a great dark patch.

Ah,
he thought.
That must be it.
He'd been too scared to notice.

The Firecrow sat up on its wheel struts and rose from the ground. Harkins scanned the busy sky above him. A space in the frantic traffic. He lit the thrusters and flew.

'Cap'n! To your left!'

Frey turned just in time to see one of them come lunging out of an aley, right by his shoulder. A flash impression of yelow eyes, a gaping mouth ful of rotten teeth, an animal snarl. Terror paralysed him, but not his blade, which moved of its own accord. The cutlass slashed out in a horizontal arc and halved the creature's head. Frey stepped aside instinctively as the Mane's ragged, sinewy body staggered past him. It fel to its knees and tipped to the floor, gore spiling from its skul cavity.

They'd stumbled into a nightmare. The eerie light of the low sun combined with the black ceiling of cloud made everything seem fractured and strange. The dreadnoughts slid overhead, like the shadowed huls of ships passing above the graves of drowned men. The grim, cold streets of Sakkan were littered with bodies and echoed with distant cries. And here were the Manes. The ghouls of the sky, terror out of legend, sprung suddenly to awful life.

The shout that saved him had been Malvery's. Frey spotted him nearby. The doc was in trouble himself. He and Silo were backing down the street together, shotguns firing. Three Manes were approaching. They ran and leaped in jerky zigzags that made them tricky to hit. Malvery winged one, sending it twisting to the ground. The shock of the bulet would have taken a human out of action, but the Mane sprang back to its feet and came on again.

'Bess!' he yeled. He needed to give orders, take control. He pointed at the enemy. 'Deal with 'em!' Then he aimed with the pistol in his right hand.

Three Manes. One was slow, one was damned fast, and the other one shifted restlessly from place to place like a jumpy kinetoscope he'd seen once in a traveling show. One moment it was there, the next a half-metre to the left, then back again in the blink of an eye. He'd seen Jez flicker the same way, back on the
All Our Yesterdays.