Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

The doctor walked ahead of him, his polished shoes tapping on the stone floor. Leading him on, silently. They both knew why he was here. Crake despised him for being a witness to his shame.

How had it come to this? He'd set out with such high hopes, such optimism. He'd met with men who traded in daemonist texts and held fascinating conversations with them about the nature of the Art. He'd acquired rare tomes at great expense and devoured them greedily. For a time he'd felt like he did when he first discovered daemonism at university. He was a repository, ready to be filled with knowledge. In a few short weeks he'd learned more than he had in the last few years.

But his joy hadn't lasted. He bought book after book but none had contained what he needed. He'd hoped to find a method to extract Bess from the metal suit he'd put her in. If not instructions, then even hints and pointers would have sufficed. But he was disappointed again and again. Plome's credit was not unlimited, and his own money was not sufficient to keep buying valuable, illegal texts. With each book that failed to provide the answers he sought, the stakes got higher, and he found it harder and harder to relax or sleep.

Things had become strained between him and Plome. Crake hated having to beg him for money that he had no realistic prospect of ever paying back. Plome's constant fretting about his state of mind became tiresome. He began to stay down in the sanctum with Bess, and kept himself occupied by teaching her new commands with his whistle. But Bess had picked up on his mood too, and when she was awake she was fidgety and withdrawn. Almost as if she was scared of him. Angrily, he put her to sleep and left her like that; but the sight of the silent, empty armoured suit was like an accusation.

The old feeling started to creep back in. That sense of being trapped. Wherever he turned, he was oppressed. There was nowhere he could get any peace. He became too agitated to study, and that made him more agitated. He ransacked his books with increasing desperation for clues on how to proceed. He bought apparatus and did experiments based on hearsay and rumour. Nothing worked. No one could help him.

But there was Bess, looming hugely in his mind, demanding that he save her.

He refused to fail. And if none of his learned peers had any advice for him, then he'd damn well have to do it himself. His time on the Ketty Jay had taught him a little about how to handle the underworld, and it was to the underworld he went. He talked to some people, greased a few palms, and all of it led him here.

Yet, for all that he felt he'd taken matters into his own hands, he never quite felt in control. And now, as he followed in the footsteps of the doctor, he wondered what he'd been thinking.

It's not too late to turn back , he thought. You don't have to do this.

But he did. He had to do it for Bess.

The basement level was mostly used for storage and was deserted. They walked a little way and took another set of steps down. The level below was dirtier than the last, and barely lit at all. There was a deep thrumming noise from somewhere nearby: a massive boiler, vibrating through the walls. Despite the boiler's proximity, it was freezing down here, and it stank of something unpleasant that Crake couldn't identify, something dank and cloying and vile. He could hear rats scurrying in the dark.

He began to jump at shadows. Each step took him further into a nightmare. If the cab driver was bad, this was worse. What had he got himself into? Where was this doctor taking him? The clean corridors he'd passed through seemed like a distant memory now. Ahead, a ceiling light flickered, turning itself on and off at random. Crake could barely keep still. He desperately wanted to be gone from this place.

Be strong , he told himself. Don't fail her.

The doctor stopped in front of a metal door and unlocked it with a key.

'This is the deal,' he said. 'After we're done here, I lead you out of the front door, past the nurse on reception. I'll meet you at the back entrance at midnight. Half the money on acceptance of the merchandise, half on receipt. Are we understood?'

'Understood,' said Crake. He could barely force the word out through the dread that took hold of him.

'I need hardly remind you to be discreet,' said the doctor.

'No,' he said. 'You needn't.'

The doctor gave him an uncertain look, noticing his distress. He made no comment. Instead, he opened the door and went through. Crake followed.

The room was tiled and white and grubby. Three gurneys were positioned against the far wall, three shapes underneath, covered by white cloths. The doctor passed from one to the other, pulling the cloths away.

Lying there were three little girls, their skin white, eyes staring upward. All of them Bess's age when she died, or thereabouts. Each had a Y-shaped row of stitches, running from shoulders to breastbone to pelvis. So appallingly young and innocent. Crake stared at them, horror constricting his throat. Shame and self-loathing filled him. He reeled and steadied himself against the door frame.

I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't. . .

'Well?' said the doctor, indicating the corpses. 'Which one did you want?'

Marduk was a cold, bleak and bitter place, even with summer coming on. It was the northernmost of the Nine Duchies, sharing a mountain border to the west with Yortland, which was the only colder place on the continent. Cruel winds blew down from the arctic, off the Poleward Sea. The month of Thresh had begun, heralding the start of the summer, but there was little of summer here.

Frey and Trinica walked along winding, slushy trails. Beyond the nearby buildings, snow-capped mountains rose hard and black. It was not yet dusk, but the peaks had swallowed the sun and the town of Raggen Crag was in twilight.

Neither had spoken for a long time. Wrapped in thick hide coats with furred hoods pulled over their heads, they wandered the paths of Raggen Crag without purpose or intention. It was enough, just to walk.

Lights glowed in the windows of the houses, which had been built in groups, huddled together for warmth. The sound of rumbling industrial boilers could be heard within. The roofs and roads were piled with drifts of dirty snow. Black arctic birds swung overhead, or sat on the heating pipes and puffed up their feathers.

It was a grim and simple settlement, like many others Frey had visited lately. They must have hit twenty-five towns in the last thirty days, and still Grist eluded them. There were sightings, hints -enough evidence to keep them in the chase - but nothing that had brought them closer to their target.

Every day, Frey scoured the broadsheets. But there was no sign of any disaster. No doomsday weapon unleashed.

What was Grist up to? What did he mean to do with the sphere he'd stolen? What was he waiting for?

If Frey was frustrated, his crew were doubly so. They were tired and bored. None of them cared about this mission the way he did. Nobody wanted to be dragged around a miserable duchy like Marduk while summer was wasting in the south. Pinn was almost permanently drunk, and Malvery had taken to joining him. Harkins was hardly ever seen on the Ketty Jay, he only came on board for brief visits, and even then he was so skittish that Frey could barely get a sensible word out of him. Silo was his usual self. Jez stayed out of everyone's way. Crake and Bess were gone.

But there was Trinica. At least there was Trinica.

Having Trinica on board hadn't been easy at first. No matter how much they tried to get on, their history always lay between them. The spectre of their unborn child kept them apart. Neither could forgive the other for that. There were so many sharp edges to their conversations.