The Black Lung Captain

Twenty-One

A Retreat — Uncertainties — The Interpreter —

Frey Stands His Ground — Down To Earth

'Get him off me! Get him off my tail!'

A chatter of machine guns, and the night was full of tracer fire, ripping past Harkins' cockpit. He banked and dived, squealing all the way, and by some miracle he didn't catch any of it.

'Will you shut your meat-hole, Harkins?' said the voice in his ear. 'I can't bloody think with you shrieking like a pansy.'

Pinn. How he hated Pinn. Of all the men and women and small furry animals that mocked and humiliated him, Pinn was the worst. Well, except for the cat. He'd rather have Pinn than the cat.

'What's there to think about? Just shoot him!' Harkins cried. He twisted in his seat, trying to locate his pursuer.

There was no sign. Hard to see anything in a storm like this. The Equaliser was probably somewhere in his blind spot, anyway. He went into a steep climb and rolled to starboard. A smattering of bullets chased after him through the rain.

'Pinn? Pinn? Stop scratching your fat arse and help me!'

There was a dull boom, and the windglass of his cockpit lit up with reflected flame. He looked behind him and saw the unfurling flower of a mid-air explosion, yellow against the night. The Skylance went spinning past, its pilot whooping in triumph.

'That's five for me!' Pinn said. 'How many have you got, eh?'

Harkins slumped back in his seat and mopped his face with his sleeve. His heart was kicking against his thin ribs and his gorge had risen dangerously high.

'Three, I think,' he said weakly.

'Hah!'

He couldn't care less how many he'd shot down. All he cared about was that he was still breathing. His life was a miserable affair for the most part, scurrying through the shadows of other men, ignored or derided by everyone. But all the same, he clung to it with a fierce grip. Death was even scarier than life was.

Lightning flickered, illuminating the moors beneath. Harkins scanned the sky for potential threats. All he could see was the motley of aircraft that formed the Storm Dog's squadron of outflyers.

'The Delirium Trigger's pulling out!' Pinn yelled suddenly. 'Look! Dracken's running, that pasty-faced chickenshit bitch!'

Harkins banked to bring the frigates into view and saw that Pinn was right. The Delirium Trigger had broken off from the Storm Dog and was rising towards the clouds. The other was making no attempt to pursue. Both craft were battered and blasted, leaking smoke and flame. The Equalisers were scattering across the plain, racing away in different directions, no doubt to rendezvous at some pre-arranged location.

Harkins gave a broad smile at the sight. The battle was over! He'd made it through!

'Cap'n!' he said. 'Cap'n, did you hear that?' There was no reply. 'Jez?' he inquired tentatively, his voice softening.

'Jez? Jez?' Pinn mimicked in a simper. 'They're not listening. Must've taken out their earcuffs. Probably sick of hearing a grown man squeal.'

Harkins bit his lip. Don't rise to it. That's what he wants. But it still hurt.

Once, he'd been a Navy pilot, and his nerve had been as strong as anyone's. What if Jez had met him then, uniformed and proud? He'd always been awkward and highly strung, never quite at ease in his own skin, but he'd been more of a man back then. At least until his comrades started dying in the Aerium Wars. Until he'd been shot down that first time, and then twice more. Until the miraculous escapes began to add up.

If Harkins had been an optimist, he might have thought himself a lucky man. He'd survived dozens of dogfights and got out of scrapes that left his companions dead in his wake. But he was no optimist. Instead, he fretted about how much luck he could possibly have left, and when it was finally going to run out.

Not tonight, though. Not tonight.

Flying was all he knew how to do, but if he had his way, he'd never fight again. All he wanted was an aircraft of his own, and the wide blue sky to fly in. Just to soar for ever. There would be no one to make him feel small. Just him and the sun and the air. He wouldn't ask for anything more.

Well, maybe one thing more. Maybe someone to share it with. Someone he trusted to be kind to him.

Jez, he thought. I wonder what she's doing now?



'Jez?' said Frey tentatively.

She wasn't moving. She lay on the ground next to the decapitated corpse of the Imperator, face down, her hair across her cheek. Frey crept up to her and gave her a poke with the toe of his boot.

'She's not going to bite you, Cap'n,' said Malvery, in the tone of someone who didn't much fancy finding out the truth of that statement for himself.

'How do you know?' Frey asked. 'You saw what happened! She ripped the Imperator's head off with her bare damn hands! One moment she was there, the next she was somewhere else! What was that?'

'That was Jez, and she saved our lives,' said Silo. 'Ain't the first time, neither.'

'That,' said Frey, pointing at her, 'wasn't Jez.'

'Ain't the time nor the place, Cap'n,' said Silo. He picked up the navigator's limp body and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 'Let's get done here and go.'

But Frey couldn't shake the memory of her, feral and snarling, that terrifying look in her eyes. That wasn't anyone he recognised. She'd changed.

Crake was at Bess's side. The golem was stirring, to Crake's evident relief. He was tearing up, and not just from the smoke. Well, at least they hadn't lost anyone. At least there was that.

But could he ever look at Jez in the same way again? Would he be able to fly, knowing she was at the navigator's station behind him?

The Imperator's head lay a short distance away. The smooth mask had come loose, and was hanging off. Frey walked over to it. 'Keep an eye out for any more Sentinels,' he told his crew.

'Cap'n,' said Malvery, a warning in his voice.

'I've dealt with these Imperator bastards before,' Frey said, as if that was an explanation. The truth was, he was angry. This was the second time he'd been unmanned by an Imperator, forced to cower in fear like a whipped dog. He wanted to see the face under the mask. Somehow, he thought it would lessen his fear of them.

He was wrong. When he pushed the mask aside with the barrel of his revolver, the face beneath was enough to make him recoil with a shout. The cheeks and eyes were sunken, irises yellow like a bird of prey. The mouth was stretched open as if in a scream, showing sharp, uneven teeth in receding gums. White, dry skin; the septum of the nose rotted away. It looked like something you'd uncover in a grave.

'Blimey,' said Malvery. 'Someone needs to eat their greens.'

Frey screwed up his face in disgust and looked closer. A stump of a tongue, cut out at the root, showed between cracked lips. There was only a spotting of blood on the floor, despite the brutal nature of the Imperator's death.

'That,' said Frey, 'is not natural.' He turned away and looked at Jez, who was hanging over Silo's shoulder. 'Can anyone enlighten me as to what in buggery just happened to my navigator, by the way?'

'She's a Mane,' said Crake, coughing. 'Partly, anyway. I suppose she wasn't fully infected.'

'You knew?'

'I guessed. Not long after she first came on board. No heartbeat, no need to eat, all of that. There've been other half-Manes, you know. They've come up in daemonist texts. Like I told you, there's always been a school of thought that said Manes were daemons. And really, what other explanation was there?'

'I was trying not to think about it too much, to be honest,' Frey said. 'I didn't think she was a Mane, though.'

'Because you lot don't know anything about them, outside of the drunken tales you hear in bars.'

'Fair comment,' said Malvery. 'We are a pretty thick bunch, all in all.'

'You're supposed to be a doctor,' Frey accused. 'That makes you smart.'

Malvery shrugged. 'I bring up the average. It still ain't great.'

'You do have Pinn on board,' Crake pointed out.

Frey waved his hands. 'Alright, alright! We'll sort this whole bloody mess out later. Malvery, you're with me. Crake, stay with Silo and Bess. Make sure nobody comes up behind us. Let's get what we came for and hoof it before Grist gets wind that we're planning to rob him.'

Beyond the barricade were scattered heaps of debris, and beyond them the corridor was aflame. Slicks of inflammable fluid sent up hazy curtains of black, foul-smelling smoke. Frey could dimly make out a doorway through the debris, uncomfortably close to the fire.

'You think that's where our sphere is?' Malvery coughed.

'One way to find out,' said Frey. He hurried through the steaming debris, his arm over his face to shield him from the heat. By the time he got to the doorway, it was too painful to be cautious, so he just ran right in and hoped nobody would shoot him.

The heat lessened to a tolerable degree once he was inside. It was a small store room, with shelves of chests and rolls of documents that were getting dangerously close to bursting into flame. A large lockbox in the centre stood open and empty.

Malvery hurried in after him, swearing as his moustache singed. He looked around the room, then grabbed Frey's arm and turned him.

'Wakey wakey, eh, Cap'n?' he said, pointing.

There was an elderly man huddled in the corner of the room, propped against the wall. Frey hadn't seen him. He was wearing Awakener robes, but they were not the white of the Speakers or the grey of the Sentinels, but crimson. That made him an Interpreter, according to Crake. Only one level below the Grand Oracles in the Awakeners' organisation. An important man, then.

A long brown beard tumbled over his chest, almost concealing the sphere he held in his bony hands. Blood ran from his nose and stained his lips. His eyes focused in and out uncertainly beneath the Cipher tattooed on his brow.

'Doesn't look good for him, Cap'n,' Malvery murmured. 'Probably got knocked around in the crash. Broke something inside him.'

'How did . . . ?' the old man said. 'The Imperator . . .'

Frey crouched down in front of him, arms crossed over his knees, looking him over. He tutted. 'You shouldn't play with daemons, you know.'

The Interpreter's eyes widened. Enough to tell Frey that Crake's theory was right. Frey put his hand out expectantly. 'I believe you have something of mine.'

The old man clutched the sphere closer to his body. His gaze became baleful. 'How dare you? Damn thieves!'

'You stole it first,' Frey said.

'You don't know . . .' the Interpreter began, then dissolved into violent coughing. Something rattled inside him with every breath. Blood glistened on his beard. 'You don't know what . . .'

'Alright, alright,' said Frey, holding up his hands. 'Easy, old man.'

'You're meddling with forces you don't understand!' he snarled.

'That?' asked Frey, looking at the sphere. 'I understand a lot of people want it. That makes it valuable.'

'It's more than valuable, you fool! Do you know what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands?'

'Far as I'm concerned, it's already in the wrong hands,' said Frey. He grabbed the sphere and pulled it out of the Interpreter's feeble grip. The old man spluttered in outrage, and then he began to cough again, more violently than before.

'Hey!' said Frey, backing off. 'Calm down, eh? You're not in great shape there. Think of your health, or something.'

'Thousands . . .' the old man said, clawing at Frey's trouser leg. 'Thousands will die!'

Frey didn't like the sound of that at all. "What does that mean?' he demanded.

The Interpreter had gone red in the face, his eyes bulging like they were going to pop out of his head. His coughs had become long, painful wheezes, horrible to hear.

Frey grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. 'Hey! Hey! What did you mean, thousands will die? What is the sphere?'

'Thousands . . .' the Interpreter whispered. Then he gave one last, rattling breath and slumped to the floor.

Frey let out a little scream of frustration through gritted teeth. Malvery squatted down, felt for a pulse, lifted up the Interpreter's head and looked into his eyes. Then he let the head drop unceremoniously to the floor with a dull thud.

'Dead,' Malvery said.

'Oh, really?' Frey snapped. 'Is that your professional opinion?'

'Don't get ratty with me. I'm just doing my job.'

'Couldn't the old bastard have hung on for a few more sentences before he croaked?'

Malvery slapped him on the shoulder. 'Tough luck, Cap'n. We got what we came for, at least. Let's get going. All this smoke can't be good for us.'

Frey stared at the body of the Interpreter, hearing his final words over and over again. Thousands will die.

He had the unpleasant feeling that they'd drifted far, far out of their depth.



When they got outside, the Storm Dog was waiting for them.

She'd put down on the moors, a short distance from the All Our Yesterdays. She was scarred and battered, bearing signs of heavy cannon damage. Her crew were busy rounding up the evacuating Awakeners, who were surrendering without much resistance now that the Delirium Trigger had abandoned them. The prisoners stood in a loose group under guard, miserable and sodden in the rain.

Frey cursed at the sight of Grist, who was striding towards them with a few of his men. He'd hoped Trinica would keep Grist busy long enough for him to make a break for it with the sphere. In fact, he'd rather hoped they'd blow each other out of the sky. He belatedly realised that he should have kept his earcuff in, so Harkins and Pinn could keep him informed. He'd been relying on Jez to relay information, but she was in no state to relay anything right now.

They scrambled down the earthen bank that had piled up around the All Our Yesterdays and met Grist at the bottom. He was accompanied by Crattle and two others that Frey didn't recognise.

'Cap'n Frey!' Grist grinned, showing yellow teeth around the stub of a cigar. The rain had extinguished it, but he kept it in his mouth anyway. 'Pleased to see you're well.'

'Likewise,' Frey lied. 'You took care of the Delirium Trigger?'

'She turned tail and ran,' Grist declared proudly. He gestured at Jez, who was slung over Silo's shoulder. 'One of yours down, eh?'

'She'll live,' said Frey.

'I'll wager she will,' said Grist. 'I bet she heals real quick, don't she?' He walked over to Silo and picked up one of Jez's limp and dangling hands. 'After all, she took an arrow through this palm not two weeks past, and it's good as new.'

Frey didn't like the knowing tone in his voice.

'It'd be terrible to lose someone who reads the wind as well as she does,' Grist said. 'She put us right on top of the Delirium Trigger, flying blind. That's something special.'

'She's a talented woman,' said Frey.

Grist held her wrist for a moment, then turned to Frey with an expression of mock surprise. 'Why, Cap'n. She don't have a pulse. I reckon she's dead!'

Frey had had enough. 'We're taking her to the infirmary.' He tried to leave, but Grist blocked him with a calloused and smoke-yellowed hand.

'Whoa, there, Cap'n. Aren't you forgettin' somethin'?' His gaze drifted to the sphere, cradled in Frey's arm. He had that hungry look again.

'I'll hold on to this,' said Frey. 'Just until we sell it. Fifty-fifty, remember, partner?'

Crattle and the other men raised their pistols.

'Oh, I don't think it's gonna work that way,' said Grist.

Bess growled and stirred, but Crattle's pistol was trained on Crake. He primed the hammer with a click. 'Tell your beast if it makes a move, you'll have a chestful of lead,' the bosun said.

'She gets it,' said Crake, holding up his hands. 'Don't you, Bess?' Bess subsided with a rustle of leather and chain mail. A sinister singsong echoed up from deep within her. It sounded like a threat.

Frey stared at Grist hard. He'd seen it coming. Seen it coming, and been unable to do a damned thing about it. His men were hopelessly outnumbered by the Storm Dog's crew. He should never have got tangled up with this man. He should have listened to sense and turned his back after Grist killed Hodd.

'What is the sphere?' he asked. 'What is it, really?'

Grist just grinned. 'It's mine,' he said. He held out his hand. When Frey was still reluctant to give it up, he said, 'Wouldn't be wise to make me ask again.'

Frey offered him the sphere, bitterly. That little ball of black metal, its surface marked with swirling curves and arcs of silver. The cause of all his trouble. He'd gone through so much to get that thing, and then to reclaim it, and he still didn't know what it was.

Do you know what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands?

Thousands will die.

Grist took it. Lightning flickered and thunder boomed. He narrowed his eyes and looked at Frey, rain dripping from his heavy brow. Then he pulled out his pistol from his belt and levelled it at Frey.

'A smart man don't leave his enemies behind to take revenge,' he said.

Frey thumbed at Bess. 'A smart man would realise that us being alive is the only thing stopping that eight-foot monster from putting her arm down your throat and pulling your guts out through your mouth.'

Grist looked Bess up and down. 'Aye. You make a good point.' He motioned towards Jez with the barrel of his gun. 'But we'll be takin' your navigator, if you don't mind.'

'What do you want her for?' Frey asked, then remembered to add, 'Besides, she's dead.'

'I think we both know that she ain't as dead as she seems, Cap'n Frey,' said Grist. 'Don't we?'

How does he know that? Frey thought. But he never got the chance to ask. There was a short shriek of incoming artillery, and then a terrific blast, big enough to light up the night and make Frey stumble with the concussion.

'The Delirium Trigger!' someone shouted. 'She's back!'

Grist swore loudly. 'That mad bloody whore! Don't she know when she's beaten?'

The crew of the Storm Dog fled back towards their craft as the Delirium Trigger sank through the clouds, her remaining guns firing at the grounded Storm Dog. Geysers of soil rained down on the scattering Awakeners. The earth shivered with the force of the detonations.

'Your navvie!' Grist said, snarling. He was no longer quite so jovial as he thrust his pistol at Silo. 'Give her over. Now!'

Silo just stared at him and made no attempt to move.

'You got what you came for,' Frey said. Grist took a step towards her, but Frey put his hand on his chest to stop him. Grist stared at the hand, and then at Frey, in amazement.

'Dead or alive, she's one of my crew, Grist. You're not having her.'

Grist was almost quivering with fury. 'Cap'n!' said his bosun. 'There's no time!'

Grist looked over at Bess, then back at Frey. There was raw hatred in his gaze. 'You thank your stars for that tin guardian of yours,' he growled, and then he turned and ran for his craft. Crattle backed off a few steps, keeping them covered with his gun, and then he ran too.

Frey briefly thought about chasing after them, or at least shooting Grist in the back, but it was foolish. There were two dozen of the Storm Dog's men running towards their craft. No way his crew could get through a firefight like that without one of them dying, not even with Bess on their side.

'Back to the Ketty Jay!' he said. They sprinted through the long grass towards their aircraft. Rain lashed at their faces. Pounding concussions came from all around them. The Storm Dog was returning fire on the Delirium Trigger, but it was an easy target until it got into the air. A hole was blasted in its keel as the Delirium Trigger scored a direct hit.

Frey dug his silver earcuff out of his pocket and clipped it to his ear.

'—oody Equalisers coming from everywhere!' Pinn was yelling. 'Sons of bitches doubled back and the Storm Dog's outflyers are all docked up inside her!'

'Harkins! Pinn!'

'Cap'n!' said Harkins, perilously close to hysteria. 'We've been . . . that is ... I mean . . . Where've you been? Is Jez okay?'

'Listen up!'Frey snapped. 'Hightail it, both of you. You won't last two minutes against that many Equalisers.'

'You sure?' asked Pinn.

'Yes! Get to the rendezvous! We'll be right behind you.'

'See you later, then.'

By the time they reached the Ketty Jay, the Storm Dog was rising from the ground, thrusters already lit to push her forward. The Delirium Trigger was coming in fast, guns blazing. All the artillery was focused on the Storm Dog. The Ketty Jay was either unnoticed or considered unimportant. Either was fine with Frey.

He raced up the cargo ramp and headed for the cockpit. Malvery came panting along behind him while the rest of them bundled into the hold. The craft rocked with the force of nearby explosions as he flung himself into the pilot's seat, punched in the ignition code and boosted the aerium engines to maximum. She rose on her struts with the usual chorus of groans and squeaks, and lifted herself off the ground.

Malvery hurried into the cockpit, red-faced and sweating. 'Anything I can do?'

'Just hold on tight!' Frey said. Malvery clung to the doorframe and squeezed his eyes shut as Frey shoved the thrusters to maximum.

Nothing happened. Frey tried again. Still nothing. The Ketty Jay was gliding upward into the storm, but she had no way to push herself forward. The thrusters wouldn't light. The engines had finally broken down on him.

Malvery opened one eye. 'Did we escape?' he asked.

'Silo!' Frey yelled. 'Get up here!'

But it was too late. The cockpit flooded with blinding whiteness. Three Equalisers hove into view, their machine guns trained on him, lights shining.

'I think they've got us covered, Cap'n,' said Malvery.

'I think so too,' said Frey. He vented aerium until the Ketty Jay was heavier than air again. She stopped rising and began to sink gently to the ground.

In the distance he could see the Storm Dog lumbering away towards the rumbling clouds. The Delirium Trigger was harrying her the whole way, but it wasn't enough to stop her. He watched the Storm Dog disappear into the storm. With her went the sphere he'd worked so hard to obtain. Stolen from him. Again.

'Bugger,' said Malvery.

'Bugger,' Frey agreed, and they came down to earth with a bump.