Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

Now he was repulsed by her, and afraid, and guilty for feeling that way. He knew she was the same old Jez, but at the same time she wasn't, and that confused him and made him angry and frustrated. He was mad at her for that.

Why did she have to screw everything up by being a Mane?

The tension was scarcely less outside the cockpit. Morale was low throughout the crew. Like him, everyone was nervous around Jez. They didn't quite know what to make of her since they'd seen her rip the head off an Imperator with her bare hands.

There were other problems, too. The departure of Crake and Bess had left a hole bigger than anyone would have thought. Malvery missed the daemonist most of all: he was gloomily drinking himself stupid. Meanwhile Harkins had taken to sleeping in the cockpit of his Firecrow, and hardly set foot on the Ketty Jay. Whenever he did, Slag emerged to drive him off. Silo kept his own counsel, as ever, but Pinn was becoming a handful. He'd been depressed ever since he got that letter from his sweetheart, but he became downright mutinous at the news that Trinica Dracken would be travelling with them. It took all of Frey's powers of coercion, and a few good old-fashioned threats, before he'd consent to go anywhere with a woman he loathed.

Pinn's opinion of Dracken was shared by the rest of the crew, although none of them were as vocal as he was. Even Frey had decided he didn't much want her on board. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but having her here destroyed the one safe haven he had in his life. When he was flying the Ketty Jay he could pretend that he was a mighty captain, free to find adventure wherever it lay. A lord of the skies! But Trinica's presence punctured all his illusions. Reflected in those black, black eyes, he saw himself as she must: captain of a heap of junk, leader of a miserable crew, a man who'd made nothing of himself.

'Are your engines supposed to make that sound?' she inquired, as Frey lowered the Ketty Jay towards the small, crowded landing pad.

'Didn't have time to get them fixed in Iktak, did I?' he said. 'Speed is of the essence, and all that. It would've taken a couple of weeks to get the parts.' Not that I could have afforded them, anyway, he added mentally.

'You must have a fine engineer, then,' Trinica remarked.

He couldn't work out whether the compliment was snide or genuine, but it didn't matter in the end. Just by being here, she made him feel like a failure.

What was he even doing? Chasing after some artefact with no clear idea of what it was or what it did? It wasn't as if he could sell the thing, even if he did get his hands on it. Frey didn't have the most sensitive conscience, but he still balked at the idea of delivering a super-weapon into the hands of the highest bidder. His dreams of a fortune had gone up in smoke, yet he went on anyway. Just like one of those idiots he saw at the Rake tables. The ones who lost everything while waiting for their luck to change.

Was he doing it to get back at Grist? Perhaps. Perhaps it was just because he was tired of being stepped on by everyone, not least the woman standing next to him. Or perhaps . . . perhaps he just needed this.

What will I leave behind? The question that had been plaguing him ever since he'd almost died while being chased by a bunch of over-persistent yokels. Well, if he could avoid leaving thousands of corpses behind, that would be good. Mass murder was a legacy he could do without.

Damn the reasons. Damn it all. He wasn't failing this time. That was all there was to it.

The town hall was one of the oldest structures in Hawk Point. It was a grand building, stony and solid, dating from a time when Hawk Point was young and full of optimism. It had been designed as the heart of the settlement, the place from which the founders would put all their plans into practice. Plans for a just and honest outpost, where a man would get a fair wage for a fair day's work, and people were decent to one another.

That had been a long time ago. Those plans were forgotten, the people who made them dead or departed. The streets stank in the heat. The gutters were choked with rubbish that the sewers coughed up when the rains came. Mould streaked the post office walls. The schoolhouse windows were all smashed. The town hall itself was surrounded by a spiked barricade and watched by armed guards.

'This Smult feller,' said Frey, as they made their way up the street. 'He can't be doing too well for himself if he lives in a dump like this.'

'You always did judge by appearances, Darian,' Trinica said.

'What of it? Most of the time it's a pretty good indicator.'

She tutted. 'And I thought you were sharper than that. People only show you what they want you to see. Haven't you learned that by now?'

Frey looked her over with a raised eyebrow. Her deathly pallor, her butchered hair. 'I've picked up some hints,' he said. She scowled at him.

People watched them from doorways and alleyways. Mostly men and a few women, their gazes hungry or hostile. This wasn't a place for strangers. Frey kept his hands near his cutlass and pistols. Trinica didn't show the slightest sign of being intimidated.

'We're safe enough,' Trinica said. 'Everyone here knows who I am. Nobody will bother us.'

Frey was scarcely reassured. He'd wanted to bring some men along for protection, but Trinica had forbidden it. Smult wouldn't respond well to that, and he might well be on edge already after the Coalition Navy's visit.

Frey wasn't sure who he'd have brought, anyway. Malvery? Too drunk. Harkins? Too cowardly. Pinn? He could barely haul himself out of bed nowadays. Silo was liable to inspire aggravation; Murthians weren't too popular in Vardia, having fought on the wrong side of the Aerium Wars. That left Jez, who may or may not turn into a raging daemon and tear his head off at an inconvenient moment.

Crake and Bess? Gone. Gone to take care of some business of their own.

He missed them. Difficult as it was to admit, he admired Crake. He respected the daemonist's smarts, his education, his way of putting things. Crake was a good sort, and those were hard to find in the world Frey lived in.

He could understand Crake's need to deal with whatever was troubling him. The damage it was doing to him was obvious. These past few months Frey had watched the daemonist hollowing out in front of his eyes. But he wished they hadn't had to leave.

The crew of the Ketty Jay were a finely balanced group. Individually, each man and woman was a mess, but together, somehow, they'd found a way to work. The loss of two of their number had thrown even-thing out of kilter, and the whole operation was beginning to feel like it was in danger of falling apart.

That scared him. Once, he'd only cared for his aircraft, and his crew had meant less than nothing. Now, he had no idea what he'd do without them.

They approached the barricade surrounding the town hall. The guards on the gate recognised Trinica. It was hard not to. There wasn't a pirate or a criminal in Vardia who hadn't heard of the white-faced woman with the black outfit and blacker eyes. Her legend went before her.

'I'm here to see Smult,' she said, and they let her in. They barely glanced at Frey. They assumed that the tattered-looking man following in her wake was her bosun, or a general dogsbody from her crew. It didn't do Frey's pride much good.

A gun-wielding thug met them at the door. He looked Trinica over, dismissed Frey with a snort, collected their weapons and escorted them inside.

Inside, the town hall was a cross between a junk shop and a treasure trove. The stone corridors were piled high with artefacts and antiques. Strange sculptures and paintings were heaped up in the foyer, peeping out from behind velvet drapes. The sheer variety of objects was bewildering. There were boxes of guns, elaborate game boards with crystal pieces, a section of the chassis from a mechanical carriage, a curving broadsword of foreign design.