The Black Lung Captain

Twenty-Eight

A Quiet Landing — Worrying Evidence —

An Urchin — Oldrew Sprine

Early morning, and the town of Endurance lurked beneath an anvil-grey sky. Powdery snow sifted down from the clouds, swirling in flurries, dusting the ground.

It was a mean, bare place, crammed into a fold in the mountains, surrounded by hard horizons of dark rock. Simple square buildings crowded in tight, huddled against the bitter north-eastern winds. A short way distant was a mineshaft: the reason for the town's existence. Gargantuan machinery - pumps and elevators and drills - surrounded the entrance. Railway tracks led in and out. Mine carts sat idle. A road led along the mountainside to a refinery at the edge of town. It was a black, sprawling mass of pipes and chimneys, squat and low, a malevolent presence overlooking the drab, slumped houses and joyless streets.

The landing pad was all but deserted, and nobody was around to guide the Ketty Jay in. Frey eyed the settlement as he descended. No sign of life. No activity at the mine. The refinery was dormant: no smoke came from its chimneys.

'It's quiet,' he muttered. He left a dramatic pause and then said:

'T—'

' Too quiet?' Jez suggested.

'That was my line,' Frey said, miffed. He'd always wanted a chance to say it.

'Sorry, Cap'n,' said Jez. Judging by her grin, she wasn't.

He returned his attention to the town below. He didn't like this. Not at all.

'Wake up Malvery, will you?' he said. 'And Silo. Tell them to bring shotguns.'

'What about Captain Dracken?'

He thought about that for a moment. 'Her too,' he said. He wasn't sure how useful she'd be, but she'd never agree to stay behind. 'You'll stay here, with Harkins. Keep in touch with the earcuffs. I've a feeling we might need a quick getaway, and I'll need you to fly the Ketty Jay if we do.'

'Cap'n.' She made to leave, but Frey stopped her.

'Wait. Before you go, tell me what you think of those.' He pointed down at the landing pad, where three very unusual aircraft sat. Them, and no others.

'The two on the far side are a Keeley Skywave and a Modderich Grace,' she said. 'Serious luxury craft. And the other's a Tabington Claw. It's the workshop's flagship model, fighter transport, top of the line. It's either escort for the other two or it belongs to some folks who are a sight rougher than the owners of the luxury craft.'

'That's what I thought,' said Frey. 'Alright. Go and wake the others.'

He brought the Ketty Jay in and settled her down with a puff of snow. Harkins came sinking through the air to starboard. The pilot had hardly said a word since Pinn's surprise exit. Frey wondered if Harkins was missing their constant bickering. Pinn might have been a torment, but at least he paid attention to his fellow outflyer.

Frey was trying not to think about what Pinn's departure would do to his crew. There was no doubt that Pinn was an idiot, but he was generally an amusing one, and Frey had got used to having him around. Every group needed a scapegoat, and Pinn was the perfect candidate, being too stupid to realise when people were making fun of him. He'd been Malvery's only drinking buddy after Crake had left. Apart from that, he was a fine outflyer, and he'd taken his aircraft with him. After losing Bess and now Pinn, Frey was getting light on muscle.

Damn it! Why did he bolt now? Just when I'd got Jez back on the team.

He was unhappy with how the whole affair had played out. Unhappy with Pinn for leaving without a word. Unhappy with himself for letting it get to that point. He'd always taken Pinn for granted, and now it had come back to bite him. It would be hard to replace him. There weren't many pilots that good who were willing to work for next to nothing.

Well, he'd deal with it as soon as he could. Maybe Malvery knew where Pinn's hometown was, and they could head over there and entice him back. But all that was for later. Right now, he had enough on his plate.

Still, one thing was for sure. With Pinn gone, it was going to be a lot quieter round here.

He looked over his shoulder, checking the cockpit was empty.

'Too quiet,' he said aloud, then sank back into his seat with a satisfied smile.

'I heard that, Cap'n!' Jez called from down the corridor.



They assembled outside the Ketty Jay, yawning and stamping their boots against the cold. Malvery was still half-drunk, squinting like a newborn puppy in the feeble morning light. Frey adjusted his earcuff.

'You there, Jez?'

'I'm here,' came his navigator's disembodied voice. He looked up and raised a hand. From the cockpit, she raised one in reply.

They headed out into the empty streets of Endurance, their breath steaming in the morning air. Frey rubbed his hands to keep them warm. He wished he could have worn gloves, but gloves and pistol triggers didn't work well together. Trinica stuck close to him. Silo and Malvery flanked them with shotguns.

The town was as silent and deserted as it had seemed from the air. Soft snow gathered in the crevices of worn stone walls. They peered suspiciously down alleys and kept a look out for movement on the rooftops, but the only movement came from the drifting flakes in the air, which settled on the furred fringes of their hoods and melted away.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but Frey was finding it hard to stay alert with Trinica next to him. He was worried about bringing her along. He didn't know if she could handle herself in combat, and the only time he'd ever seen her shoot was when she fired a pistol point-blank at his chest, back in Duke Grephen's stronghold the winter before last. But there was another reason, too. He didn't want her getting hurt.

They hadn't gone far from the landing pad when they turned a corner and came across a heap of loose scaffolding and rubble in the middle of the street. They approached it carefully. Upon closer inspection, they saw pieces of broken furniture stuffed in there too. The fabric had been pierced by bullet holes.

'What's this look like to you?' Frey asked the company in general.

'It looks like a barricade,' Trinica replied.

Frey frowned. 'What's been going on here?'

There was a scuffle of movement to his left. Frey turned quickly; his arm snapped out straight, pistol levelled.

Staring at them from the mouth of an alleyway was a boy. Ragged, dirty, no more than thirteen. His eyes widened in fright, and he fled.

'Hey!' Frey cried, breaking into a sprint. He pelted towards the alleyway with Trinica and Silo in pursuit.

'Oh, damnation. Don't make me run!' Malvery complained, accelerating to a boozy waddle in their wake.

The wind whipped along the narrow spaces between the buildings, blowing the powdery snow ahead of it. Frey wiped his eyes, trying to catch sight of his target. There! A clatter of empty petrol containers, somewhere to his right. The boy had tripped over them.

'Hey! I'm not going to hurt you!' he yelled. Unless I have to run my arse all over town to catch you, that is.

The boy could shed some light on things, perhaps. Like what had happened to the Century Knights. Like where everybody had gone. Like how to find Almore Roke, Grist's old crewmate.

Frey ran to the comer, and saw another alley, wider than the last, heading between the houses. The overturned petrol containers were still rolling on the stony, frosted ground. At the end was the boy, his mouth in an O, terrified. He was waiting to see if Frey had followed him. When he saw the chase was on, he disappeared round the corner.

'Come back!' Frey called, as he put on an extra burst of speed. 'I just want to talk!'

'Cap'n!' Silo was calling after him. 'Cap'n, wait!'

But Frey couldn't wait. Not if he was going to catch that boy. He rounded the corner and skidded to a halt. The boy was gone. In his place were six men crouched behind an overturned cart, their rifles levelled at him.

Ambush. Frey stared at them in shock.

'Bugger,' he said.

He felt his arm wrenched hard. Silo pulled him sideways just as the rifles opened up. Bullets chipped at the walls and whined through the air. He was yanked back around the corner, out of the line of fire, where he tripped and fell to the ground.

'I seen less obvious traps in my time,' the Murthian said.

Frey ignored him. 'Oi!' he yelled at the gunmen, scrambling to his feet. 'What did I do to deserve that?

'Darian!' Trinica called. He looked to where she was pointing. Another six men had appeared at the other end of the alley, blocking them in. They had rifles too, aimed and ready to fire.

'Whoa! Whoa!' he shouted in alarm, holding up his hands. 'Don't shoot!' He looked around at his companions. 'Guns down, everyone. Let's not make the nice people nervous, eh?'

They laid their weapons on the ground, making no sudden moves. The men approached suspiciously. They were grubby, their faces seamed and lined, and they wore heavy, tatty clothes.

'They ain't mercs,' said one.

'Just 'cos they ain't wearin' the uniform, don't mean they ain't workin' for the company,' argued another.

The first man waved the barrel of his gun towards Trinica. 'Mercs don't use women, far as I know.' He raised his voice, calling to the men around the corner. 'It's alright! We got 'em!'

Frey saw the six men who'd fired on him come swaggering round the corner. 'Anything I can do?' Jez said in his ear. She'd been listening on the Ketty Jay.

'Stay put,' he whispered. 'Too many of 'em.'

'No whisperin'!' snapped one of their captors.

Frey decided that they weren't in imminent danger of being killed by someone with an itchy trigger finger, so it was time to get some answers. 'Who are you lot, anyway?' he asked.

'We should be askin' you that.'

'We're visitors. Looking for someone. Whatever little spat you've got going on here, it's no business of ours.'

'Lookin' for someone? Who?'

'Feller named Almore Roke. You know him?'

There were exclamations of surprise and horror, and a clatter of rifles being primed. Frey stared nervously at the cluster of barrels pointed at his head. 'I take it you do?' he said, his voice small.

'I knew they was in league with Roke!' one of the men said.

'I'm not in league with anybody!' Frey babbled rapidly. 'I'm after a man called Harvin Grist. I heard Roke used to be on his crew. He might know where Grist is. I just want information, that's all! No need for the guns! No need for the guns!'

There was silence as they considered him. Frey was aware that his credibility in Trinica's eyes may well have suffered following his less than manly display, but he decided he'd rather be alive than brave.

'They're mercs!' piped up a high voice. Frey saw the skinny boy that had lured them into the ambush. 'Kill 'em!'

Frey shot him a poisonous glance and wished him a horrible death by venereal disease.

'They ain't mercs,' said a grizzled voice from behind them. A middle-aged man was striding forward. He was stout as an oak, with white hair and white stubble on his unshaven cheeks. By the way the others deferred to him, Frey pegged him as their leader. 'We saw 'em fly in, didn't we? You saw their wings. Mercs wouldn't fly a piece o' shit like that.'

Frey bit his tongue. Even though it was a point in his favour, he was tempted to argue out of pride.

'See?' he said, his voice strained. 'Not mercs. Now can I ask what in rotting bastardy is going on here?'

The grizzled man waved at his companions and they stepped back, returning to a state of wary readiness.

'I'll tell you,' he said. 'Name's Oldrew Sprine. Yours?'

'Darian Frey.'

'Right. Now your friend Roke—'

'Not my friend,' Frey interjected quickly.

'—he's the big cheese in these parts. Took his ill-gotten pirate gains and went into a different kind o' piracy. Robbin' the common folk.'

'Sounds like a despicable sort,' Frey commiserated.

Sprine sneered. 'This town is greased wi' the blood, sweat and tears of miners like us. Roke is the company's representative here.'

'The company?'

'Gradmuth Operations.'

'I've heard of them. Big aerium suppliers to the Navy,' Trinica said.

Sprine grunted. "Cept it's not just the Navy they're supplyin'. It's them pus-arsed Sammies!'

Frey raised an eyebrow. Yards supplying Samarlans? Their old enemies in the south, the same people they'd recently fought two wars against? It didn't sound especially likely.

'Soon as we got word, we was up in arms,' Sprine said. He spat on the ground. 'It's not enough that they pay us barely enough to feed our families. Not enough that they work us harder every day. Now they're makin' traitors of us, too!'

Frey was pleased to note that nobody seemed to want to shoot them any more. He glanced at Trinica, to be sure she was alright. She didn't seem the least bit scared.

'I heard the Century Knights were here?' he asked.

'Aye, they turned up quick-smart, didn't they?' said Sprine. 'Always do, when they're protectin' the rich folk. Don't turn up so fast when it's the miners in trouble. They're holed up in the refinery with Roke and the rest of the company folk.

'So these mercs . . . they work for Gradmuth Operations?'

'Aye. Paid killers.'

'Well,' said Frey, indicating the dishevelled doctor by his side. 'I think you can see by the state of us that we haven't been paid by anyone in a long time.'

Sprine looked them over. 'Aye. You've a point there.'

Frey fixed his eyes on a point a dozen metres behind Sprine. 'In fact, if we were mercenaries, we'd probably look more like that.'

Sprine laughed. 'You don't expect me to fall for thaaaAARGH?!' he bellowed, and then pitched forward into Frey as he was shot in the leg.

Pandemonium. The deafening, percussive sound of rifle fire. The air was full of snow and bullets and the stink of gunsmoke.

Malvery heaved Sprine off Frey as the miner fought to untangle his rifle and find a target. The mercenaries, dressed in blue uniforms, were shooting round the corner at the end of the alley. Frey and Malvery went the other way, towards the miners. Malvery dragged his captain towards the wall, as far out of the line of fire as they could go. Hard chips nipped at Frey's cheeks as bullets bounced off the stone.

He cast around desperately for Trinica, and saw her being bundled away by Silo. The miners were in disarray, some of them shooting and others retreating, falling over each other. One lay on the ground, staring upwards, a fanned spatter of red blood on the snow. Everyone was yelling.

Frey and Malvery slid along the wall, pressing themselves close to it. Bullets flew past them in both directions. Some of them thumped into flesh, but thankfully none of it belonged to Frey.

Then they were behind the miners, their heads down, running. The miners were too caught up in their gunfight with the mercs to care about prisoners now. Frey threw himself round the corner after Silo and Trinica, and ran smack into something that felt like a building.

Suddenly, the chaos turned to stillness. Frey blinked. Somehow, he was on his back, gazing at the sky. Snow was floating down to settle on his face. Everything seemed vaguely dreamlike.

There were faces looking down at him. Some he recognised; one he didn't. An ugly face, belonging to a giant. Bearded, beetle-browed, cut from rock. Dimly, Frey came to the conclusion that he'd run head-first into this man's chest.

Everything swam back into focus. The sound of the gun-battle around the corner became loud again. Then another face come into sight, and an altogether more pleasant one. He recognised Samandra Bree, of the Century Knights. Which meant the man he'd run into was her partner, Colden Grudge.

She bent over him, hands on her thighs, her tricorn hat perched on her head.

'Hello, Frey,' she said. 'Fancy meeting you here.'