The Black Lung Captain

Nine

The Dreadnought — Curious Cargo —

Frey Gets A Shock — Jez Sneaks Off — Flashbacks

Manes, thought Frey. What in all damnation have I got us into?anes, thought Frey. What in all damnation have I got us into?

The narrow passageways of the dreadnought swallowed the light of their oil lanterns. Rusty iron and tarnished steel pressed in on them. Grim metal walls. Pipes streaked with mould. They'd only gone a few dozen metres from the rip in the hull where they'd entered the craft, but already it was like they were entombed. Lightless, hopeless. There was a scent in the air, beneath the tang of burning oil from the lanterns and the smell of Grist's cigar. Decay, and something else. A dry, musky, unfamiliar odour that set his senses on edge.

Hodd led the way, followed by Grist and his bosun Crattle. Frey, Silo, Crake and Jez brought up the rear. The rest stayed outside on lookout duty.

Nobody spoke. The only sound was the shuffling of feet and the sniffle and snort of runny noses. Anxious eyes strained in the lantern light. Pistols twitched this way and that. The forest had been hard on their nerves, but this was worse.

Frey was scared. There were things that man wasn't meant to mess with. Like daemons, for example. Seemed dangerous to play with forces like that. He'd never had a big problem with Crake doing it, but that was mostly because he made sure not to think about what the daemonist was up to. Thus far, Crake's tricks had been useful and generally harmless. Like the ring Frey wore on his little finger, or Crake's golden tooth that could bewitch the weak-minded, or his skeleton key that opened any lock.

But Manes? There wasn't a freebooter alive who didn't give a secret shiver at the tales of the Manes. Stray too far north and you might get caught in the fogs. And with the fogs came the Manes, inhuman ghouls from the Pole. Shrieking and howling, riding their terrible dreadnoughts. They'd kill you on sight, or worse, turn you. You'd be one of them to the end of your days. And that might be a very long time indeed. They all knew the story of the boy who lost his father to the Manes, only to meet him and kill him thirty years later when the Manes returned to his hometown. Changed though his father was, he hadn't aged at all.

Manes. Their nature was mysterious, their purpose unknowable. That frightened people. More than the Sammies who might be building a great air fleet to the south, more than the strange and hostile people of Peleshar with their bizarre sciences, more than the rumours that came out of New Vardia, of disappearing colonies and sinister portents. Nobody knew for sure what the Manes were, or what they wanted.

He checked his crew. Silo was typically inscrutable. Crake looked ill. But it was Jez who worried him most. She had a stricken expression on her face. Maybe he should have left her outside with Malvery and Pinn, Ucke and Tarworth. But no: he wanted clear-headed and reliable people in here with him, and these three were the best he had.

'You alright?' he asked her quietly.

She gave him a distracted nod and a false smile. 'Fine, Cap'n. Place just makes me jumpy.'

'Keep it together, all of you,' he said. 'There's nothing here but bad memories.'

He wished he could be half as sure as he sounded.

The bow end of the craft had listed away from the stern half, making the floor slope awkwardly. Frey had to concentrate to stop his feet from sliding. He glanced down black passageways, imagining Manes at the end of them, with crooked teeth and hateful eyes.

It was cold here, among the metal and the pipes. Empty. No animals had crept in, even after decades rusting in the rainforest. No insects. Something about this place made them stay away. Frey thought he sensed it too. There was an unease about the dreadnought that troubled his instincts. A feeling of wrongness in the stale air.

It seemed they were on some sort of maintenance deck, though it was hard to tell. There were no signs or similar indicators. The dreadnought's interior was relentlessly bare. Their lanterns pressed light through shadowy doorways, illuminating the flanks of unfamiliar machines beyond.

'Through here,' Hodd announced, and Frey saw that they'd reached the end of a passageway. A heavy iron door was half-open there, wide enough for a slim man to slip through. Hodd struggled to open it further. 'Let me just . . . see if I can . . .'

'I'll do it,' said Grist. He took hold of the door and shoved it open with a squeal of hinges.

'Watch your step,' Hodd advised, as he led the way. 'It's quite a fall.'

Frey understood what he meant when he entered the room beyond. They were on a walkway overlooking a cavernous cargo hold. Due to the slant of the craft, the floor of the walkway tilted them towards that gaping abyss. Only a railing stood between them and the dark. Ahead of them, Hodd was shuffling along carefully, one hand fixed to the railing.

Frey peered over the edge, but whatever was down there was beyond the range of the lanternlight. 'I'd like to take a look at what they're carrying,' he mused aloud. His voice echoed back to him faintly.

'In time, in time, Cap'n Frey,' said Grist. 'First port o' call is this door that Mr Hodd spoke of. The one with the invisible barrier. Somethin' worth guardin' is somethin' worth stealin', I reckon.'

'Fair enough,' said Frey. He turned to Jez, who was close at his shoulder, and whispered to her, 'What can you see down there?'

'Building materials,' she replied quietly. 'Girders, slate, joists, stuff like that. Metals like I haven't seen before.'

'Building materials?' Frey was disappointed. He'd been hoping for piles of gems.

'Manes have a thing about disassembly. They can strip whole factories in a couple of days and carry them off. I mean brick by brick. They used to do that all the time in the North.

'They steal factories?'

'Hangars, refineries . . . anything, really,' she said. 'They'd come in fleets, pull everything apart, load it up and take it away. At least, they used to. Not so much nowadays. Now it's mostly people they come for.'

Frey nudged her to get her attention. Grist was watching her with interest, evidently wondering why she was gazing into the impenetrable blackness. Her uncanny vision was something Frey wasn't keen on explaining. 'Don't be too obvious, eh?' he muttered.

'Sorry, Cap'n,' she said, looking away.

'So what's in the hold is the remains of something the Manes disassembled?'

'I don't think so. Everything's all too neat and new-looking. Looks more like they're going to build something. They've got carts, pumps, piping . . . You want my guess? Down there, you've got everything you'd need to set up a small colony.'

Frey didn't like the sound of that at all. 'A colony? You've got to be kidding.'

'In case you haven't noticed, Cap'n, this isn't exactly the place for jokes.'

It really wasn't funny. The only good thing about the Manes was that they generally stayed behind the permanent wall of cloud that hid the North Pole. If they ever moved out of their frozen hideaway, things were going to get pretty grave.

They came off the walkway and joined another passage. A short distance further on there was a room off to one side. Hodd led them into it. It was a small antechamber, empty of decoration or seating. In one wall was a riveted metal door, much like the others they'd seen.

'That's it,' said Hodd.

Grist's brow furrowed as he stared at it. 'That?'

'The impassable door.'

It looked rather innocuous. Crake shrugged. 'Well, let's get to it then,' he said. He motioned to Silo and Crattle, who were the only ones still wearing backpacks. The rest of them had left their burdens outside. 'Put down the equipment - carefully - and I'll get started.'

'Shouldn't we try the door first?' Frey suggested. 'I mean, to see if it's actually the right one, before we waste all this time?'

Crake was busy unpacking a box of wood and metal covered with gauges and dials. 'Be my guest,' he said.

'Any volunteers?' Frey asked.

The faces he saw in the lanternlight were not volunteer's faces.

'I'll do it, then,' he said impatiently. He strode up to the door, reaching for the handle. It was just a door, after all. What could possibly—

The next thing he knew, he was upside-down, in a contorted heap on the other side of the antechamber. His head was whirling and he wanted to be sick. His buttocks slid down the wall and he twisted to fall on to his side. Silo helped him upright. He swallowed as his gorge rose, and managed to keep his lunch down with a heroic effort.

'That's the door, alright,' he wheezed. 'Have at it, Crake.'

He sat down again and concentrated on making the room stay still. Nothing else they'd come across had so much as a lock on it, but this door had been barricaded with some unearthly force.

What are they guarding?



There was little to be done while Crake set up his instruments. Jez found the lack of distraction unbearable.

This place was both horrifying and fascinating. She felt drawn and repelled at the same time. The evidence of the Manes was in everything, all around her. There was something familiar here, a faint, lulling scent. It soothed her, the same way the smell of an aircraft sometimes evoked fond, warm childhood memories of her father in his hangar. She was appalled that she could draw a comparison between that time and this, but she couldn't deny it. The feeling was the same. Safety. The unquestioning faith and trust of a little girl in her father.

A trick. This was not the same. It couldn't be.

Ever since she'd laid eyes on the dreadnought, she'd felt like she was about to tip into one of her trances. But the moment hadn't come. Instead she hovered agonisingly on the edge. Wanting to fight it off but not knowing how. She didn't dare slip, not here. The Manes were all around her. If she let them get a hold of her, who knew what might happen? Maybe she'd lose herself for good. Maybe she'd become one of them.

Maybe she'd turn on her friends.

She wished she could explain to the Cap'n what she was, what a danger she might be to them, especially here. She wished she could tell him how she was trying so hard to stay human, how she was afraid it was a battle she'd one day lose. But she couldn't say a word. She was too afraid he'd send her away. The Ketty Jay was the only home she'd found in her years of wandering since the change. She couldn't lose that.

She was standing at the back of the antechamber. Everyone was watching Crake as he assembled various rods and connected them to a complex brass device. Unnoticed, she sneaked away from the group.

She carried her lantern with her, for appearances' sake, even though she had little need of the light. Manes didn't need it, after all. There were no electric lamps in the walls or ceiling. Even in the midst of a battle, this place would be dark as a mausoleum.

This craft was empty, but it still resounded with the feel of them. She was searching for something, but she didn't know what.

I'm part of them. They're part of me. But I don't understand them at all. I don't know what they are.

She found a set of stairs and climbed them. Light grew as she neared the top, and she stepped into a long room. Six huge auto-cannons lay dormant before her, ranged along the port side of the hull. Grey daylight crept in through the open gunnery hatches in the dreadnought's flanks.

She approached the nearest autocannon. There was a seat for the operator mounted on the side, and a rusted control panel. She ran her hand over the seat, her fingertips scoring trails in the dust.

How do they live, these creatures? Do they argue, hope, love? What do they think? Do they think at all?

She pulled her hand away. Risky to even consider questions like that. The temptation was too great. She remembered the feeling of connection, of kinship, that she'd experienced when she was on the verge of turning. In that moment, she'd known how lonely and isolated she really was. How lonely all humans were. The Manes were linked, each one to every other. To be included in that was intoxicating.

It had been only the briefest of instants, but she'd never forgotten it. A moment of sight for a blind woman, before being thrown back into the dark. How could she not want more? And yet, what would be the price to get it? If she became a Mane, she wouldn't be human. If she was one of a collective, she wouldn't be an individual. She refused to be assimilated by anyone.

I am human, she thought, addressing the empty craft. Damn you for trying to make me otherwise.

She moved on, through the cannon bay. Beyond, she found a ladder leading to an upper deck, and climbed it. At the top was another slanted passageway, as chill and black as the others. Several doorways led off from it.

Protruding from one of them was an arm.

Jez stared at it. A forearm, visible up to the elbow, lay on the floor of the corridor. A torn, ragged sleeve. Yellowish, waxy skin. Long, cracked nails.

She went closer. The arm was attached to a body. The body lay in a room. And in that room . . .

There were dozens of them in there.

The room beyond the doorway had a large brass globe in the centre, showing the land masses of Atalon in obsidian relief. Beyond it was a porthole, overgrown with vines, but not enough to completely choke the daylight. There were charts on one wall, a desk, a bookcase. The books had been thrown from the shelves in the crash. Now they were scattered on top of the pile of Mane corpses that were heaped against one wall.

It was the captain's quarters. And there, among the pile, in a tatty greatcoat and boots, was the captain. Dead like the rest of them.

How can the dead die twice?

They'd lain here for decades. She knew that by the rainforest that grew around them. Yet they were perfectly preserved, as if they might get up and walk at any moment. The rot that infested the dreadnought hadn't touched them.

She stepped over the corpse in the doorway. It was similar to the one that had tried to turn her: human in appearance, but twisted. Yellow-red eyes stared, unfocused, from a wizened face. Sharp teeth were exposed in a snarl.

Some of the others were more hideous, others less so. Some had the look of monsters; some could have been human. One, even, was handsome, with a cold, eerie serenity to his face. Some wore rags; some were clad in motley armour. Some wouldn't have looked out of place on a street in Lapin; others wore fashions from times long past. There was not a mark of violence on them, except for the way they were heaped up on top of each other. As if they'd been thrown against a wall, limp and inanimate as the books that followed them.

The smell, that awful, comforting odour, was strong here. Dry and animal-like. The smell of the Manes.

She looked away from them. They were painful to see. Something about them inspired a sad ache in her chest.

They didn't even seem dead, not really. They'd just . . . stopped.

Her eyes fell on the books, scattered about the room, lying open, their pages bent. Some of them were in Vardic. Classics, many of which she'd read. Several were in Samarlan and Thacian, languages she recognised but couldn't speak. But most were in a script she'd never seen before.

She picked up the nearest and studied it. The text was elegant and complex, all in curves. Circles and semicircles, speared through by arcs. Not a straight line to be seen.

Where did this come from? she thought. It was printed, professionally done. She frowned at it, trying to puzzle out where it might have originated. Peleshar? Well, maybe. It was possible.

But maybe the Manes had printing presses. Maybe they made books.

Maybe they had their own literature.

The thought dizzied her. Jez had seen them come from the sky to murder or kidnap the entire population of a small Yortish town. Feral creatures, springing from the rooftops, flickering and flitting like stuttering flames, sometimes moving too fast for the eye to follow. They'd mobbed men like animals, torn them apart with inhuman brutality.

But these same creatures built and flew aircraft. They stole buildings, and presumably rebuilt them. And now, it seemed, they wrote stories.

She let the book drop from her fingers. Nothing made sense. She'd been inducted into a club without knowing anything about its members or what it stood for. The idea of the Manes as a civilisation didn't match with their thoroughly deserved reputation as vicious, merciless raiders. No one, to her knowledge, had ever heard them speak. So what were they? Animals? Humans? Or something else?

For that matter, what was she?

She squatted down next to the pile of corpses. The captain was bearded, his face half-covered by a hat, eyes fierce and red, teeth sharp. Driven by some compulsion she didn't understand, she reached out toward his hand.

Just to prove I'm not afraid. Just to prove they'll never have me. Just to know if I can.

Her hand closed around the captain's, and the images burst into her mind as if through a dam, a deluge of screams and pleading, sweeping her away.

—a captain, a rebel, a man made Mane who didn't want to be— —no more raids, no more murder, no more taking of people. No more Invitations. No more—

—they are turning away from their brethren, severing connections, a crew setting out for a new world, a new life, isolation, peace—

—but then came the loss, the lack! Once part of many, now they are few, too few—

—Once they were beloved, but they turned away. The horror of their mistake overwhelms them but it cannot be undone and still they go on—

—into the loneliness, the endless, all-swallowing loneliness—

—too much to bear—

—too much—

She washed up on the shores of reality to find herself back in the captain's quarters, freezing cold. She scrambled away from the corpses, tears gathering. The captain's dead eyes stared past her. She knew now what was behind that gaze. She'd been brushed by the tragedy, the inexpressible sorrow of this crew. They'd been Manes, and chose not to be. They cut themselves free. The loss of it killed them.

They lay down and died here, together, she thought. They died of loneliness.

She heard a footstep in the doorway, and looked up. Silo was there, lantern in hand. A flicker of concern passed across his face as he saw her.

'Cap'n sent me lookin',' he said.

She flung herself at him suddenly, hugged herself tight to his chest. All that she felt, all the fear and horror and sadness . . . she couldn't keep it in any more.

Silo didn't say a word. He just held her, while she cried like a child.