Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

Beyond the windglass of the cockpit, she could read the wind. The stirrings of the cloud and the ripples in the treetops told a tale that Jez, in her altered state, could decipher. Pressure changes, crosswinds and updrafts laid themselves out in her mind like a chart. She sensed the life beneath the canopy, millions of creatures, great and small, the growling heart of the island.

And in the distance, a terrible sound. The howling of the Manes. Calling for her. Calling her to be with them. To join them, beyond the Wrack.

Don't listen to them, she told herself. You're not one of them. You're human.

But the dread of their voices was too much. She had to retreat. In moments, the trance had passed.

She slipped in and out of that strange state easily and frequendy now. She'd learned to cope with the flood of sensation, to enjoy the thrill of it. But the Manes were always there, waiting for her, beckoning. She was afraid of their summons. She didn't know if she could resist it forever.

She'd experienced what it was to be a Mane, for the briefest of instants, during her aborted transformation. She'd felt their connectedness, the joy of their companionship. The link they shared, the togetherness they felt. After that, it was hard not to feel lonely. They wanted her, not to harm her but to embrace her.

That was why she was afraid. To embrace the Manes would be to give up her humanity for ever. To become one of them would be to surrender herself. And she wouldn't do that.

Frey stirred in his seat, glanced up at Jez, and then back at the island before them. 'There she is,' he said.

'There she is,' Jez agreed.

'You ever wonder if half the stuff they say about this place is true?'

'It's probably not,' she said. 'But still, the Coalition would rather colonise New Vardia - on the other side of the world and the other side of the Storm Belt - than colonise a land mass that lies a pleasant half-day's flight off their coast.'

'Hmm,' said Frey. 'That's not a good sign, is it?'

'Not really.'

'If I get eaten, you can have the Ketty Jay, okay?'

'That's very sweet of you. What if you get stamped on, poisoned, or die horribly from some unknown plague?'

Frey gave her a look. 'Just get back to your charts, why don't you?'

She grinned and saluted. 'Right you are, Cap'n!'

Crake pulled the collar of his coat up and hunched his shoulders against the cold. It always seemed to be cold nowadays. On the Ketty Jay or off it, there was a chill in his core that never quite went away.

The clouds were iron-grey overhead, and an arctic breeze came from the north, pushing through the rainforest. The Ketty Jay sat in a bald, rocky clearing, with tree-covered mountains on either side. Crake stood under her tail, the cargo ramp lying open behind him. In the distance, a waterfall plunged hundreds of feet from a ridge of cliffs. When the wind was right, Crake could hear its dull, sullen roar.

Nearby, the Storm Dog was easing itself down. The air was sharp with the smell of aerium gas as it vented its tanks.

The Storm Dog was craggy and rectangular, like a beam of black, petrified timber. Its prow was blunt and its hull pocked and uneven, stained with cloud-rime and iceburn. It sank on to its landing struts with an artless crunch and settled in the clearing. The air shimmered and rippled as it wheezed out the last of its aerium in an invisible cloud, then its engines shut off.

For a moment, there was quiet. An awesome, massive silence. Only the stir of the wind sounded over the endless industry of the waterfall. Crake tipped back his head, closed his eyes, and basked in the nothingness.

'Hey, Crake!' Pinn yelled from the cargo hold. 'Give us a hand here! Half of this is your stuff!'

Crake's eyes fluttered open. The birds and insects of the rainforest, which had been silenced by the disturbance, began to pick up their songs again. Hydraulics whirred as the Storm Dog opened its cargo ramp. The moment had passed.

Too brief. All too brief.

The others were coming down the Ketty Jay's ramp, carrying packs and equipment. Tents, weapons, food, and Crake's daemonist equipment, which they'd need when they reached their destination. Bess came clumping down with an armful of gear and laid it down among the other packs with a child's exaggerated care. Then she scampered over to Crake - as much as a half-ton armoured suit could scamper -and settled on her haunches in front of him.

'Well done,' he said, patting her flank. 'What a helpful girl you are.'

Bess leaned in, pushing her face-grille closer. Points of light twinkled in the darkness behind. Eyes like stars. She gave a quizzical coo: an ethereal, other-worldly sound.

'I'm alright, Bess. Don't you worry,' said Crake, forcing a smile.

Bess wasn't fooled. She reached out one gloved hand and stroked Crake's arm clumsily. Metal, chain mail and leather dragged down his coat, almost tearing his sleeve off. Crake felt sudden tears threatening, and swallowed. He gave the golem an awkward hug. She was too big to get his arms around.

'Don't you worry,' he said again.

'Will you stop flirting with your girlfriend and carry something?' Pinn yelled from the cargo ramp, as he went back in for another pack.

They assembled in a spot between the aircraft: six from the Ketty Jay, six from the Storm Dog, including Hodd. Frey wanted Silo to come, and Harkins had volunteered with great enthusiasm to stay with Bess on the Ketty Jay. Bess was the Ketty Jay's watchdog, ensuring that nobody but the crew came aboard with all their limbs still attached. But the Cap'n needed somebody human to keep an eye on things while they were away, and he was happy to leave Harkins behind. The pilot was a liability in a firefight and he had a jumpy trigger finger at the best of times. In the rainforest, he'd be a disaster. More likely to shoot himself in the foot than kill one of the enemy.

Along with Hodd and Captain Grist came the Storm Dog's emaciated, bug-eyed bosun, Edwidge Crattle, and three crewmen called Gimble, Tarworth and Ucke. They were a seedy-looking trio, but then Crake had hardly expected anything else.

Gimble was a thin, scowling fellow who said little. Tarworth was short, baby-faced and eager. Ucke had a more eccentric appearance.

He was bulky, with hair sticking out everywhere, and he had offensively bad teeth in all shapes, sizes and angles. When Pinn rudely commented on them, Ucke informed the group that they were actually a false set. Dentures. He'd made them himself from teeth he'd collected from a multitude of bar brawls.

Once the introductions were done, they shouldered their packs, checked their guns and made ready to set off.

'Now I don't want none of you believin' all that talk you might have heard about Kurg,' Grist told them. 'There'll be beasts, for sure, but probably not half as horrible as the tales tell.' He slapped Hodd on the shoulder. 'This man's been in there and come out without a scratch. If he can do it, then us rum sons of bitches ought to be able to. What's in there should be afraid of us, not the other way about!'

Yes, he came out without a scratch, thought Crake. It was the rest of his expedition that died.

Crake loathed Hodd on sight. Frey had told him about his first meeting with the explorer, which was enough to convince Crake that they were dealing with a shiftless rich boy who'd spent his life living on Daddy's money, utterly detached from the realities of the world. Crake had grown up amongst the aristocracy, and he was never afraid to apply stereotypes. In his experience, they turned out to be true more often than not.