Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

He looked at the bottle on the table. It was the first time it had occurred to him that his drinking was affecting his Art. Without that forbidden knowledge to set him apart he was just another layabout aristocrat, no better than Hodd. The idea appalled him. He considered himself better than that. Yet the evidence indicated otherwise.

Then an idea occurred to him. A drunken, stupid, furious idea born out of frustration at being faced with his own inadequacies. Something he never would have dared consider when he was sober. But he was keen to prove Malvery wrong, keen to show the doctor -and himself - that he was still worth something. He was more than a privileged idler with a hobby; he was extraordinary. So he said it aloud, and once said, he was committed.

'I think I know a way we can find that sphere.'

'How?'

'I'm going to ask a daemon.'

Crake raised his hand to knock on the door, hesitated, and let it fall. He looked both ways up the winding, lamplit alley.

Narrow, elegant, three-storey dwellings were crammed shoulder-to-shoulder along the cobbled path. The air was fresh with the salt tang of the sea. There were voices coming from beyond the end of the alley, but nobody he could see. It was an innocuous, out-of-the-way house that he'd come to, and that was exactly how its owner liked it.

Crake turned up the collar of his greatcoat and raised his hand again, knuckles bunched to rap on the wood. His skin was clammy and his palms were damp. Everything felt closed-in and unreal, as if seen through a camera lens. The taste of whisky still lingered in his mouth. His heart skipped a beat now and then. It was a distressing new development that he'd noticed lately, usually when he was hungover.

I shouldn't have come here.

He thought about making up an excuse. He could rejoin the crew in the morning and tell them he'd tried and failed. No harm done. Maybe it was better they didn't find Dracken anyway.

But he wouldn't lie like some common scoundrel to his friends. That would be too much of an injury to his pride.

Pride? A failed daemonist, drinking himself numb? Where's the pride in that?

Self-disgust spurred him on. He knocked on the door.

'You told them you'd do this,' he murmured to himself. 'What's a man, if he doesn't do what he says he will?'

He heard footsteps, and the door was opened to reveal a short, round man in a brocaded jacket, wearing a pince-nez. He was bald on top of his head, but a thin fringe of grey hair fell to his collar. His eyes bulged at the sight of Crake.

"Rot and damnation, will you get out of sight!' he snapped. He grabbed Crake by the arm and yanked him inside, then looked both ways up the alley and shut the door.

'A pleasure to see you too, Plome,' said Crake, smoothing out his coat and admiring the hallway. 'How have you been?'

'You can't keep turning up on my doorstep like this!' Plome spluttered. 'There are procedures for this sort of thing! A letter, a clandestine rendezvous, disguises! Be more circumspect, won't you?'

'Noted, Plome,' said Crake. 'But I'm here now, and nobody saw me. Will you please relax?'

Plome produced a frilled handkerchief and mopped his brow. 'I'm running for the House of Chancellors, you know,' he said.

'I didn't,' Crake replied. 'Congratulations.'

Plome harumphed and flounced into the sitting room. 'The slightest whiff of scandal, do you understand? The slightest whiff could ruin me.'

Crake followed him in. The sitting room, like the hallway, was panelled in dark wood and hung with portraits. Two armchairs sat to either side of an unlit fireplace, with a lacquered side table between them. Plome went to the liquor cabinet and pulled the stopper from a crystal decanter.

'I'm sorry,' said Crake. 'I wouldn't have come if I wasn't in desperate need.'

Plome poured two glasses of brandy and held one out to Crake. He'd intended to resist the temptation of alcohol - he'd need a clear head for the night's work - but his resistance crumbled at the sight of it. A clear head was no good without steady nerves, after all, and he didn't want to risk causing offence by refusing. He took a sip, and felt a bloom of warmth and well-being.

'As you see, we have electricity in Tarlock Cove at last,' said Plome, indicating the light fixtures. 'And a great improvement it is too.'

Crake made an admiring noise. It wasn't news to him; he'd seen it mentioned in a sidebar in the broadsheets months ago. He wouldn't have come otherwise.

Last time he'd visited, Tarlock Cove had run exclusively on gas. The portable generators that provided many remote settlements with electricity had been outlawed. They were too noisy for a picturesque coastal town, and they put out unpleasant fumes. Instead, the town's founders had built a small, quiet power plant, and now charged the residents for their supply. It was the way it was done in the cities, and it was rapidly spreading to smaller settlements as the technology became cheaper.

Crake was all for progress in that regard. He needed a steady flow of electricity for what he had in mind, and using a generator would be risky. Generators broke down too easily.

Plome settled himself in an armchair with a nervous glance at the windows to make sure the blinds were secure. Crake sat in the other, the brandy glass cupped in his hand.

'So you're to be a politician?' Crake prompted.

'I hope so,' said Plome. 'I have the support of the Tarlocks, and they have been most thorough in introducing me to other aristocracy in the Duchy. I'm the horse they're backing, so to speak. The incumbent has proposed some unpopular motions to the House and all indications are that he's on his way out.' He took a sip. 'I stand in good stead, but it's still two months to the ballot.'

'Isn't it dangerous to put yourself in the public eye like that? I thought you were trying to keep out of sight?'

'A calculated risk,' said Plome. 'I hope to obtain enough leverage to quieten anyone who might discover my less socially acceptable activities. At the very least, I should escape the gallows if I'm caught.' His tone changed, became wary and grave. 'They say things about you, Crake. What you did. Why you're on the run from the Shacklemores.'

Crake looked at his reflection in the lapping surface of his brandy. He swirled the liquid to break it up. 'It didn't happen the way they say.'

Plome shook his head. 'Spit and blood, Crake. If it happened at all . . .'

'It wasn't me!' said Crake sharply. 'At least ... it was my body doing it, but I wasn't there. You understand? I reached too far, Plome. A procedure got out of control.'

Plome left his seat and paced the room in agitation. Crake stared at the fireplace. What would come next? Accusations? Recriminations? Would he be thrown out? It would be less than he deserved. At least then he wouldn't have to go through with this ill-advised plan of his.

Plome returned holding the crystal decanter. He topped up Crake's glass and his own, then put the decanter down between them and sat.

'I don't have the words,' he said. He shook his head. 'The price we pay for our calling is sometimes . . . terrible. Terrible.'

Crake swallowed as his throat tightened at the unexpected sympathy.

'What do you need?'

'I need to use your sanctum.'

Plome studied him. 'You want to use the echo chamber, don't you?'

Crake held his gaze.

'I've never dared use it,' Plome confessed. There was a tremor of excitement in his voice.

'I've used one,' said Crake. His tone left Plome in no doubt as to the result.

'After what happened, you still want to try again?'

'I'll get it right this time.'

'What if you don't?'