Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

The Navy aimed to disable rather than destroy. The Manes had no such compunctions. The massive aircraft exchanged barrage after barrage, but the Manes had the best of it.

We're not going to win this one.

Harkins passed a Navy frigate that was listing to one side, dipping slowly and unstoppably towards the streets below. It seethed smoke from a huge tear in its hull. Harkins didn't want to think about what would happen when it reached the ground. He was too busy thinking about himself. Trying to stay alive.

How many more lucky escapes would he get before his number was up? How much longer could he keep doing this? Combat flying was a young man's game. He didn't have the constitution for it any more. The physical and mental stresses were too much. He was getting seriously worried that he'd suffer a heart attack at some point, if he wasn't blown out of the sky first.

And yet, what else was there for him? Flying was the only thing he could do, and the only activity he really loved. Take that away, and there wasn't much left.

No, he was trapped in the cockpit till the end. That was plain.

Just let me live through this.

'Hey!' It was Pinn. 'Down there! To your starboard.'

He looked, and his eye was drawn by a sharp, rapid flash. An electroheliograph. It took him a moment to recognise the blocky, ugly shape of the Ketty Jay. And there was only one person aboard who could operate an electroheliograph that fast.

Jez!

His heart filled and swelled in his chest. A brown-toothed grin split his lips. Jez! Alive and well! He was overcome with joy, and for a few seconds he could do nothing but beam like an idiot.

'They're signalling,' said Pinn. 'I think it's . . . er . . .'

Harkins remembered himself. Quick, quick. What was she saying? It was a code, designed to speedily transmit a message without the need to spell it out. Defend us.

'Yes, ma'am!' he said happily.

'What?' Swept up in the heat of the moment, he'd forgotten Pinn could hear him.

'Nothing. They need us to, er, keep the Blackhawks off them, I suppose.'

'Where are they heading? They're flying into the battle.'

'Let's just do what they say!' Harkins snapped, surprising himself.

Pinn sounded equally surprised. 'Alright, alright. Let's get down there.'

Harkins tipped the Firecrow into a dive, keeping a wary eye out for Blackhawks. It did seem that the Ketty Jay was aiming itself into the heart of the conflict, but he had to assume the Cap'n had his reasons.

His train of thought was interrupted by an artillery shell, which exploded uncomfortably close to him and made him yelp. Concussion shoved at the Firecrow and jolted him in his seat, hard enough to make his cap fall off. The engines groaned as they cut through the disturbed air, then settled back to their usual pitch.

Harkins wasn't a vain man, but he didn't much care for showing off his balding pate, and he felt naked without his cap. He groped around for it in the cockpit, keeping his eye on the skies. When he couldn't find it at his feet, he reached under the seat.

His hand closed on something. Something warm. Something that was all tangled fur and stringy muscle.

'Oh, no,' he said quietly.

With a yowl like the shrieks of the damned, Slag exploded out of hiding and sank his claws into Harkins' calf. Harkins wailed operatically, kicking his leg this way and that in an attempt to dislodge his attacker. But the cat was hanging on as if his life depended on it.

Harkins' flailing hand brushed against his cap, which had fallen down the side of his seat. He scooped it up and and began to beat at the cat with it, maddened by agony.

'Harkins!' Pinn said. 'You getting laid in there? What in rot's name is going on?'

The drone of his engines ascended as the steepness of his dive increased. He wasn't even holding the flight stick any more. He was faintly aware that his aircraft was out of control, but the danger of that seemed dim in the face of the more immediate peril.

Slag released him at last, surrendering to the flurry of blows. He bolted into the footwell, where he ran around between the foot-pedal controls, screeching and hissing. Harkins tried to pull his legs up, but he was strapped in to his seat and he couldn't get far enough out of the way. His leg seared with pain and his trousers were wet with blood.

Pinn was shouting in his ear, but he wasn't listening. His entire attention was focused on the cat.

Slag shot out of the footwell, under his seat and behind him. Harkins fought to turn around, desperate to keep his attacker in view. Having that monster in front of him was bad enough; having him out of sight was worse. But his straps foiled him. He thrashed against them, fumbling for the release, but his hands were clumsy. G-forces were pressing him against his seat. His head was thumping as it filled with blood.

'Pull up! Harkins! You're diving too steep! Pull up!'

The city spun and veered beneath him. Terrifyingly solid, filling his view. The engines had reached an alarming pitch.

Instinct took over. The Firecrow was tumbling. He grabbed at the stick and fought against the roll. He needed to stabilise before he could level off. Otherwise, he wouldn't know which way was up.

There was the sound of fabric ripping. Claws on the back of his seat, ascending fast. Then the hot, stinking weight of Slag landed on his shoulders. The claws sank in, bringing exquisite and unbearable torture. Harkins abandoned the flight stick, beating at himself, consumed by panic.

'Harkins!'

He couldn't hear. The cat was howling. He twisted and contorted himself, trying to get the evil creature off him. The claws detached from his shoulder, scrabbled at his back, slashed his scalp. He couldn't get a hold of his attacker. Caught between two dangers, he lunged for the flight stick instead, which was jolting about of its own accord. His fingers grasped at it and slid away. His hands went back to Slag, who was launching a fresh attack on the nape of his neck, caterwauling at the top of his lungs. The hard, cold streets of Sakkan rushed up towards him.

You're going to die!

Then something clicked in among the panic and confusion. The cat's howling. Harkins had never known that sound to come from Slag before, but he knew an old friend when he heard it. That was the sound of fear.

Slag was scared. Out of his mind. He hadn't been hiding under the seat waiting to pounce. He'd been cowering, terrified of the sky and the noise of the plane and everything around him.

And with that knowledge came fury. He wouldn't go out like this! Not after everything he'd lived through. Dogfights, crashes, dozens of near misses. The whole point of being a coward was not to get killed. But Slag didn't seem to get that. He was just a dumb animal, too scared to know what was good for him.

More scared than Harkins, in fact.

Harkins reached over his head, and found a confident grip on the scruff of Slag's neck. He hauled the cat off him, ignoring the blaze of pain as the claws came free. He dangled the struggling animal in front of his face.

'Bad kitty!' he screamed, and punched the cat as hard as he could in the face. Then he slung his limp and cross-eyed adversary over his shoulder, into the back of the cockpit, and grabbed hold of the flight stick.

The Firecrow was speeding towards the ground, buffeted by the winds, corkscrewing crazily. He gritted his teeth and attempted to counter the roll. His head felt like it was going to burst. The cat was forgotten. There was only him and the Firecrow.

But there was no contest of wills here. Here, even if nowhere else, Harkins was the master.

The craft responded. The spin slowed and stopped. Harkins found the horizon above him. Now he was stable. He stamped on the air brakes and wrenched back on the stick.