Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

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Darian Frey is down on his luck. He can barely keep his squabbling crew fed and his rickety aircraft in the sky. Even the simplest robberies seem to go wrong. It's getting so a man can't make a dishonest living any more.
Enter Captain Grist. He's heard about a crashed aircraft laden with the treasures of a lost civilisation, and he needs Frey's help to get it. There's only one problem. The craft is lying in the trackless heart of a remote island, populated by giant beasts and subhuman monsters.
Dangerous, yes. Suicidal, perhaps. Still, Frey's never let common sense get in the way of a fortune before. But there's something other than treasure on board that aircraft. Something that a lot of important people would kill for. And it's going to take all of Frey's considerable skill at lying, cheating and stealing if he wants to get his hands on it...
Strap yourself in for another tale of adventure and debauchery, pilots and pirates, golems and daemons, double-crosses and double-double-crosses. The crew of the Ketty Jay are back!

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Crake's quarters, like the others on the Ketty Jay , were cramped and spartan, with bare metal walls and a sliding door to maximise space. They'd previously been the passenger's quarters, but they didn't take passengers these days, so Crake had the luxury of two bunk beds to himself. He used the upper bunk to store luggage and books.

'So what do you think?' Frey asked. 'You think you could break that barrier?'

Crake was sitting on the lower bunk while Frey leaned against the wall. 'Can't say without being there,' he said. 'I need to take readings. We'll have to haul my equipment through the rainforest.' His tone was lazy, disinterested. Barely bothering to pronounce his words properly.

'Can Bess do it?'

Crake made a face. 'Bess shouldn't come. She's too big and too heavy for tramping around in that kind of terrain. She'd sink to her knees in the mud the first time it rained. Not to mention she'd knock over every tree on the way.'

Frey hadn't thought of that. He cursed under his breath. Having along would have been their most effective defence against the monsters that were rumoured to dwell in Kurg. 'Just give me a best guess, then. Does it sound like something you could crack? The barrier, I mean.'

'It sounds like something a daemonist would put up to keep people out,' said Crake. His words had degenerated into slurring. 'Pretty basic, actually. Repulsion and nausea. But I won't know till we gel there. If it's some sort of unknown technology . . .' He shrugged. He made to get to his feet, but his hand slipped on the edge of the bunk and he flopped back down.

'Are you drunk?' Frey asked, surprised. It wasn't even midday.

Crake gave a guilty smile. 'Little bit,' he said. He reached under his bunk and pulled out a bottle. 'Want some? Trade you for some Shine.'

'Shine?' Frey said stupidly.

'Shine. We all know you use it, Cap'n,' Crake said, with an insinuating wink.

'Once in a while, sure, but—'

'Can I have some?'

'Crake, what is wrong with you? Used to be you felt like one of us. but you've been acting stranger and stranger for months. Now this? Drunk by midday? You?'

Crake just stared at him with an expression that said: are you finished? It made Frey angry all of a sudden. This wasn't the Crake he knew. Not at all.

'You're part of a crew now,' he said sternly. 'You stopped being a passenger long ago. I need my crewmen capable, got it? You're no use to me drunk.'

Crake gave him a surly salute. 'So can I have some Shine now. Cap'n?'

'No!' He grabbed the bottle out of Crake's hands. 'Sleep it off. Get your head straight, you bloody idiot. I want us all coming out of that rainforest alive. All of us. So you'd better sharpen up.'

He slid the door shut behind him with as much of a slam as he could manage, and stalked off up the corridor. The whole incident had enraged him unreasonably. It wasn't as if Malvery and Pinn didn't drink themselves silly at inconvenient times.

But it wasn't that. It was the sullen defiance, the mocking wink. That leering man begging for drugs had been a stranger. Damn, he knew Crake had been getting withdrawn recently, but he'd rather hoped it would sort itself out. Every man had their private daemons. Crake's were getting a hold on him, though.

Malvery stepped into the corridor ahead of Frey and eyed the bottle in his hand.

'Starting early, aren't we, Cap'n?'

'We're all coming out of that rainforest alive!' Frey snapped at him. Then he stamped off towards his quarters, leaving the bewildered doctor in his wake.

Harkins sat in the cockpit of the Firecrow, watching the coast slide away beneath him. He had a fine view through the windglass bubble on the Firecrow's nose as the dry, barren duchy of Anduss was overtaken by the sparkling blue water of the East Divide. The sun glittered fiercely on the waves, making him squint. He scratched his head under his pilot's cap and shifted in his seat.

Vardia was behind them. Kurg lay ahead. Harkins didn't feel good about any of it.

The Ketty Jay flew below him and to his left. Pinn's Skylance hung close by, its sleek body and wide, smoothly curved wings cutting steadily through the air. On his right was the Storm Dog. He wrinkled his nose and stared at it mistrustfully.

It was a Ludstrome Cloudhammer: a heavy frigate, manufactured in Yortland. Long, vaguely rectangular, with tiny wings for steerage set far back on its hull. Ten times the size of the Ketty Jay, it was built above all for toughness. A Cloudhammer could run any storm, suffer any weather. Slow and cumbersome it might have been, but it bristled with cannons, and its armour was thick enough to take the best that most aircraft could dish out.

Harkins didn't like it. He didn't like the ugly craft or its ugly crew. But more, he didn't like what they were doing. They were threatening to make everyone rich. And Harkins didn't like that idea at all.

There was only one thing in Harkins' life that he really enjoyed, and that was flying. The only time he felt anywhere close to normal was inside the cockpit of a Firecrow. If he couldn't fly, he didn't have much of anything.

Outside the Firecrow, the world was a frightening and hostile place. Harkins didn't deal well with people. Even before the Aerium Wars shot his nerves to pieces, he'd been a jumpy sort. People sensed his weakness and mocked or ignored him. But he'd always let his flying do the talking, at least until his aircraft was taken away.

It was Frey who rescued him from the misery of a land-bound life after he'd been discharged from the Coalition Navy. Frey who'd given him a Firecrow and, with it, another chance. The crew of the Ketty Jay were the closest thing to friends he'd ever managed. And now along came Captain Grist, promising them all riches and fame. Promising change.

What happened if they all did get rich? Did anyone think of that? Did anyone think what would happen to their little band then? Would things really carry on as they were?

No. Of course they wouldn't. Things would change. Everyone would leave. Pinn might even go back to his sweetheart. And Harkins would be left out in the cold. Because it didn't matter how much money he had. It wouldn't stop him being scared. He couldn't change the way he was.

What would he do, if he didn't have the Ketty Jay? He'd have to try and make new friends. The agony of strangers. Just the thought of it made him feel a little sick.

But there was another reason, too. Jez. Kindly Jez, who never said a cruel word to him. Lately, he'd begun to feel funny whenever he thought about her. An odd, warm sensation, like a smile inside. A stirring in his—

'Harkins!' said Jez in his ear. He jumped violently enough to crash his head against the windglass of the cockpit.

'Yes! Jez! Yes sir, ma'am, sir!' he burbled, blushing scarlet.

'Course correction. Three degrees south, okay?'

He looked around guiltily, as if someone might be there, observing him. 'Three degrees south. Yes! Got it! Erm . . . yes!'

He adjusted the cap on his head and waited for her to speak again, but there was nothing more. After a short while, he relaxed and made the course correction as instructed. He didn't trust those daemonic little earcuffs. He had a creeping suspicion that they let people read his thoughts.

Would that be such a bad thing, though? On reflection, maybe a little mind-reading would help him out. It would all be easier then. He might be able to talk to her, if it wasn't for the words in the way. He could tell her how humiliating it was to be him. How frustrating and infuriating it was, to be dominated by everything and everyone.

He wanted to be brave, but his bravery had been torn away in strips throughout his life. Too many near misses, too many crashes he'd walked away from, too many comrades lost. He wasn't much of a man, he knew that. But then she was a little strange herself, what with all those weird things she could do. Like how she healed bullet wounds in hours and how she was strong enough to lift crates that even Malvery couldn't.

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