Chris Wooding - Retribution Falls

‘I can’t see you!’

‘Pinn! Bloody help me!’ Harkins yelled.

‘I can’t help you if I can’t see you!’ Pinn yelled back. Then, in a rare and remarkable moment, he had an idea. ‘Climb up! Climb out of the pack! I’ll find you up there!’

He pulled the Skylance into a steep climb, making his way free of the main mass of combat. The higher they got, the fewer aircraft would be in their way to complicate things.

‘Pinn! They’re right on my tail!’

‘I’m coming, you noisy chickenshit! Hold on!’

He spotted the approach of tracers from his port side and rolled the Skylance a moment before a blast of machine-gun fire ripped past the belly of the craft. A quick glance told him that it had come from a Windblade.

‘I’m on your side!’ he yelled. He could feel a strange tiredness settling into his bones, and remembered the daemonic earpiece. Every whoop and comment he made was sucking a little more energy out of him, and now he’d begun to notice it. He nearly cursed, but at the last moment remembered to keep his mouth shut.

The Windblade had realised its mistake, and was peeling away to search for fresh targets. Pinn craned around in his seat to look for Harkins, and spotted him a klom away, shooting skyward at an angle close to vertical. Three aircraft chased him, sending weaving lines of tracer fire ahead of them.

Pinn hit the throttle and the Skylance responded. He streaked across the dull sky, the battle beneath him and the mists above, his eyes fixed on the steadily ascending quartet of aircraft. Harkins was jinking and twisting as best he could, but the sheer volume of gunfire made it unlikely he could evade them long enough to make it to cover.

Pinn found himself in the grip of an unfamiliar sensation. He was worried. As much as he scorned Harkins, he didn’t want to be without him. Harkins was just about the only person on the crew he could push around.

You better not get shot down, you stuttering old lunatic.

Smoke began to pour from the Firecrow’s wing.

‘I’m hit! I’m hit!’ Harkins screeched.

Pinn thumbed his trigger and his machine guns clattered, tearing through the foremost of Harkins’ pursuers. The aircraft exploded in mid-air, sending chunks of itself flying away. The others were too close to avoid the debris: a slab of wing, spinning end over end, whipped through the air and into the cockpit of another pirate, smashing him out of the sky. The third aircraft went into evasive manoeuvres immediately, searching for the author of the surprise attack, and then decided that the chase wasn’t worth it and plunged back down towards the main mass of the fighting.

Pinn whooped and slapped the side of the cockpit, then scooped up the ferrotype of Lisinda and gave her a kiss. ‘Harkins!’ he called. ‘How bad is it?’

Harkins levelled out and then banked experimentally. He looked wobbly, but the smoke had stopped.

‘I . . . er . . . I lost one of my thrusters . . . had to shut it down. Not good, really, then.’

Pinn looked regretfully at the combat going on below them. ‘We’re done here. You’re not gonna last another skirmish. Let’s go help out the Cap’n.’ He matched Harkins’ turn and fell into position behind him.

‘Hey, Pinn? Hey?’

‘What?’

There was a pause. ‘Um . . . thanks.’

Pinn smiled to himself. ‘Didn’t I tell you to clam it?’ he said.

‘Where’s the treasure kept?’ Malvery demanded. The pirate’s reply was incoherent, mouthed as it was around the barrel of a shotgun.

‘Take the gun out?’ Crake suggested.

Malvery withdrew the shotgun a little way. The pirate—still shocked at being collared by the bulky doctor—bent over and gagged. By the time he’d recovered, there was sullen defiance in his glare.

‘The treasure. Where?’ Malvery demanded again.

The pirate suggested some anatomically improbable places where Malvery could shove his mother. Malvery broke his nose with the butt of the shotgun, then looked around at his companions and shrugged. ‘That’s me out of ideas,’ he said.

Silo and Jez were covering either end of the corridor. The stronghold was mostly deserted—the pirates had evidently fled—but Frey was taking no chances. The pounding of the guns outside seemed worryingly close now, echoing through the empty spaces, bouncing off the unadorned walls. Dust shook from the ceiling, bringing new cracks.

‘We haven’t got time for this,’ he muttered. He seized the pirate, who was holding his bloodied nose, and pointed at Crake.

‘This is my friend Grayther Crake. He’s got quite a remarkable smile. Why don’t you show him, Crake?’

Crake grinned. The pirate stared at him for a moment. His gore-streaked hands came away from his face, the pain of his nose forgotten, and he craned forward in admiration.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘That’s a nice tooth.’

Half a minute later, they were on their way, newly furnished with directions. Malvery had insisted on clubbing the pirate once more for that crack about his mother, but afterwards they let him go, minus his pistols and several molars.

They hurried through the corridors, keyed up to face resistance at any moment, but they found few people to stand against them. One man ignored them completely, presumably running for the exit. Another took a pot-shot at Bess and was gunned down for his trouble.

A particularly heavy concussion shook the building and sent plate-sized flakes of plaster raining from the ceiling. Frey stumbled to his knees, and Silo caught his arm as he fell. As he was helped to his feet, he met the Murthian’s eyes. Both of them were thinking the same thing. They should get out of here now, while they still had the Ketty Jay and their lives.

Just this last thing, Frey told himself, shakily. Our luck’ll hold.

Silo saw the resolve in Frey’s gaze and gave him the tiniest of nods, then reached out one long-fingered hand and squeezed his shoulder in reassurance.

Frey found himself suddenly grateful for the constant presence of the engineer in his life. Though Frey rarely even noticed him, he was always there, a silent strength, working invisibly behind the scenes to keep the Ketty Jay running. Frey realised how important Silo had been to him all these years, a friend who asked for nothing but who would offer unquestioning support whenever it was needed. Silo had saved his life after the ambush in Sammie territory, and been with him through all the bitterness that followed. Frey had never wanted a confidante; he wanted someone who he felt would never betray him, no matter what. That was Silo.

Driven by an absurd and overwhelming urge, he hugged his engineer. Silo stiffened in surprise.

‘Rot and damnation, Cap’n, this isn’t exactly the time!’ Malvery cried.

Frey withdrew, his face colouring. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You’re right.’

A few more turns brought them to the vault. It was exactly where the pirate had told them it would be. Unfortunately, it was where most of his friends were, too.

The vault door was standing open as they arrived, and a dozen pirates were busy carrying out chests full of treasure. Orkmund himself was there too, directing his men. He was more physically imposing in person than he’d been from a distance: muscular and tattooed, with a bald head and a boxer’s face.

Frey had wanted to get the drop on them, but with Bess in tow it was impossible. By the time they’d rounded the corner, the men were alerted. Only the puzzling nature of the metallic clanks and leathery creaks had stopped them pulling out their guns. But now the golem stepped into sight, with Frey and his crew behind her. Some of the men went white and backed away, dropping their end of the chests. Others let their burden fall and drew guns. But Frey’s crew had their guns out already, and at the first sign of violence they started shooting.