Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

They can walk through walls! he thought, remembering his conversation with Professor Kraylock at the university. Some of them, anyway. The rumours were true.

It came on, inch by inch, as if moving through treacle. All that metal did nothing more than delay it. It would come through, this ghostly figure, and open the door from the inside. Then its fellows would flood in, and that would be the end.

Time was running out.

Frey approached the corner of the engine assembly. The voices of Grist and his men became suddenly loud. Frey realised they were nearer than he thought, and stopped.

'We hold 'em here!' Grist's gravelly voice.

'Cap'n, this has all gone to shit!' That was Crattle, his bosun. 'They ain't interested in makin' us immortal like them. They're killin' everyone.'

'What you say?' said a third voice. 'You wanted 'em to turn us? What kind of crazy scheme you dragged me into, you piece of—'

A gunshot made Frey jump. There was a slithering noise, and a body hit the floor.

'Any more dogs wanna bark?' Grist asked. 'No? Then firm your damn jaws. They'll be comin' in eventually. We'll meet 'em here.'

Frey looked back at his crew. Malvery and Silo were pressed up close to him, primed, waiting for the word to go. But Grist and his men were dug in, no doubt facing the engine room door. By the sounds of it, they were too busy arguing to notice the Mane stealthily slipping inside, but even so, Frey didn't like the idea of a frontal assault on their fortified position.

He raised his hand and made a twirling motion with his upraised finger. Malvery made the same motion, frowned and shrugged. Sign language for: what's that supposed to mean?

'Go around,' Frey mouthed to them, indicating with his hand. Not for the first time, he wished he commanded a highly trained bunch of soldiers instead of a ragtag mob of rejects in varying stages of alcoholism.

Malvery 7understood the second time. They sneaked back the way they came, skirting the engine assembly on its other side. Frey wanted to get behind Grist, to catch him by surprise.

As they passed the entrance, he glanced down from the walkway. The Mane was three-quarters into the room, pulling its trailing leg through the door. He marvelled that Grist's men hadn't seen it yet. He guessed they must be settling in to their positions, loading their guns, doing anything but looking where they should be.

The Manes were coming, and soon. Their shrieks sounded ever more eager, reaching a new pitch of frenzy. He had to force himself not to run.

Hold your nerve. Blunder in and you'll get everyone killed.

He needn't have worried. At that moment, Grist and his men spotted the phantom slipping through the door, and the racket of gunfire drowned out all other sounds. Frey threw caution to the wind and ran, hurrying along the walkways, until finally he saw them.

They'd taken position at one corner of the engine assembly, on the floor of the chamber. They'd piled up a barricade of parts and equipment between the protruding iron pipes, and were hiding there, facing away from Frey. There was Grist, a hulking, hateful figure in a grubby greatcoat, wreathed in smoke as ever. The sphere was wrapped up in a coat at his feet. He had a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other, ready for hand-to-hand combat if things should come to that. Next to him was his scrawny, gaunt bosun, bald skull shining with sweat.

With them was Trinica. Black-clad, white-haired, crouching at the barricade with the rest of them, a pistol in her hand. Trinica. Alive and kicking.

His reaction was not what he'd expected. Bitterness tinged his relief. He suddenly remembered the burn of her betrayal. It angered him to find her like this: not as a prisoner, but ready to fight on Grist's side. Of course, even enemies became allies when necessary, and she was probably only being practical. But it upset his vision of the grateful maiden, waiting to be saved, and that spoiled things.

All he'd wanted to do, ever since he saw the Storm Dog disappear into the vortex, was to rescue Trinica. But now he knew that wasn't quite right. He wanted to rescue the idea of her. To salvage the possibility of love as he'd once known it. But the reality was considerably more complex and messy.

How was it that life never worked out the way it did in his head?

Well, anyway, they were here now, and he was bloody well going to rescue her. If only so he could hold it over her later.

There were six of them in all, including Trinica. Along with Grist and Crattle were two sturdy-looking thugs and a scared engineer. Another man lay face-down, shot through the chest. All of them, except Trinica and the corpse, were occupied with shooting at the Mane, to no effect. Trinica, sensibly, was saving her ammo.

Keeping well to their rear, Frey took the opportunity to descend from the walkway to ground level. Shooting down on them from an elevated position seemed like a good idea at first, but the walkways provided little protection from return fire, and Frey didn't much fancy catching a bullet between the legs.

He reached ground level a dozen metres behind Grist's position. Silo followed him down, and Malvery was just stepping off when Crattle yelled, 'The Manes are coming in! Get ready!' Then, warned by some intuition, the bosun looked over his shoulder, and saw Frey and his men.

They needed no other signal. Frey, Malvery and Silo opened fire.

Their first shots, instinctively, were all aimed at Crattle, who'd raised his pistol towards them. He jerked and twisted, bloody spray punching from his back, and went sprawling to the floor. The rest of Grist's crew had a few seconds to react. It wasn't enough. Silo and Malvery chambered new rounds, picked their targets, and blew them away. The last of Grist's men, the engineer, managed to get off one wild shot before he, too, was killed.

While his companions took care of the others, Frey aimed at Grist. But a dozen metres wasn't an easy distance for Frey, and Grist was quick for a big man. Frey took three shots, but somehow Grist slipped between them, and Frey hit nothing.

Trinica hadn't been as fast to appraise the situation as Grist had. She wasted an instant on shock, surprised by the sight of Frey. Then Grist came lunging towards her. Too late, she raised her pistol to shoot him. He cannoned into her, knocking her weapon aside. They rolled together along the ground, and he ended up with one huge arm around her throat, gun pressed to her head. He slid backwards until he came up against the barricade, and lay there, with her lying across him as a shield.

Grist grinned. Stalemate. Again.

Not this time.

Frey raised his pistol and aimed it at Grist's head, where it protruded from behind Trinica's. She was struggling in the captain's grip, but she didn't have his strength.

At that moment, there was a triumphant howl, multiplying rapidly in volume. The door was opening. The Manes were getting in.

'We gotta go, Cap'n,' Malvery said.

I might hit her, he thought, sighting down the barrel of his pistol. His hand began to tremble. I might kill her.

'We gotta go!' Malvery yelled at him, as the shrieks of the Manes got louder still.

Take the shot, he urged himself.

Her eyes met his. Maybe it was wild fancy, but he thought he spotted a flicker there. A crack in the facade. Fear. There had been a time when she'd genuinely not cared if she lived or died. But something had changed now. She wanted to live. He saw it in her.

Don't leave me. Don't let me die.

Malvery and Silo were backing away now, towards the steps. The cries of the Manes had reached a deafening pitch. He heard the slap of their feet as they raced into the room. At any moment they'd come flooding round the corner of the engine assembly to consume him.