Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

'I heard that, Cap'n!' Jez called from down the corridor.

They assembled outside the Ketty Jay, yawning and stamping their boots against the cold. Malvery was still half-drunk, squinting like a newborn puppy in the feeble morning light. Frey adjusted his earcuff.

'You there, Jez?'

'I'm here,' came his navigator's disembodied voice. He looked up and raised a hand. From the cockpit, she raised one in reply.

They headed out into the empty streets of Endurance, their breath steaming in the morning air. Frey rubbed his hands to keep them warm. He wished he could have worn gloves, but gloves and pistol triggers didn't work well together. Trinica stuck close to him. Silo and Malvery flanked them with shotguns.

The town was as silent and deserted as it had seemed from the air. Soft snow gathered in the crevices of worn stone walls. They peered suspiciously down alleys and kept a look out for movement on the rooftops, but the only movement came from the drifting flakes in the air, which settled on the furred fringes of their hoods and melted away.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but Frey was finding it hard to stay alert with Trinica next to him. He was worried about bringing her along. He didn't know if she could handle herself in combat, and the only time he'd ever seen her shoot was when she fired a pistol point-blank at his chest, back in Duke Grephen's stronghold the winter before last. But there was another reason, too. He didn't want her getting hurt.

They hadn't gone far from the landing pad when they turned a corner and came across a heap of loose scaffolding and rubble in the middle of the street. They approached it carefully. Upon closer inspection, they saw pieces of broken furniture stuffed in there too. The fabric had been pierced by bullet holes.

'What's this look like to you?' Frey asked the company in general.

'It looks like a barricade,' Trinica replied.

Frey frowned. 'What's been going on here?'

There was a scuffle of movement to his left. Frey turned quickly; his arm snapped out straight, pistol levelled.

Staring at them from the mouth of an alleyway was a boy. Ragged, dirty, no more than thirteen. His eyes widened in fright, and he fled.

'Hey!' Frey cried, breaking into a sprint. He pelted towards the alleyway with Trinica and Silo in pursuit.

'Oh, damnation. Don't make me run!' Malvery complained, accelerating to a boozy waddle in their wake.

The wind whipped along the narrow spaces between the buildings, blowing the powdery snow ahead of it. Frey wiped his eyes, trying to catch sight of his target. There! A clatter of empty petrol containers, somewhere to his right. The boy had tripped over them.

'Hey! I'm not going to hurt you!' he yelled. Unless I have to run my arse all over town to catch you, that is.

The boy could shed some light on things, perhaps. Like what had happened to the Century Knights. Like where everybody had gone. Like how to find Almore Roke, Grist's old crewmate.

Frey ran to the comer, and saw another alley, wider than the last, heading between the houses. The overturned petrol containers were still rolling on the stony, frosted ground. At the end was the boy, his mouth in an O, terrified. He was waiting to see if Frey had followed him. When he saw the chase was on, he disappeared round the corner.

'Come back!' Frey called, as he put on an extra burst of speed. 'I just want to talk!'

'Cap'n!' Silo was calling after him. 'Cap'n, wait!'

But Frey couldn't wait. Not if he was going to catch that boy. He rounded the corner and skidded to a halt. The boy was gone. In his place were six men crouched behind an overturned cart, their rifles levelled at him.

Ambush. Frey stared at them in shock.

'Bugger,' he said.

He felt his arm wrenched hard. Silo pulled him sideways just as the rifles opened up. Bullets chipped at the walls and whined through the air. He was yanked back around the corner, out of the line of fire, where he tripped and fell to the ground.

'I seen less obvious traps in my time,' the Murthian said.

Frey ignored him. 'Oi!' he yelled at the gunmen, scrambling to his feet. 'What did I do to deserve that?

'Darian!' Trinica called. He looked to where she was pointing. Another six men had appeared at the other end of the alley, blocking them in. They had rifles too, aimed and ready to fire.

'Whoa! Whoa!' he shouted in alarm, holding up his hands. 'Don't shoot!' He looked around at his companions. 'Guns down, everyone. Let's not make the nice people nervous, eh?'

They laid their weapons on the ground, making no sudden moves. The men approached suspiciously. They were grubby, their faces seamed and lined, and they wore heavy, tatty clothes.

'They ain't mercs,' said one.

'Just 'cos they ain't wearin' the uniform, don't mean they ain't workin' for the company,' argued another.

The first man waved the barrel of his gun towards Trinica. 'Mercs don't use women, far as I know.' He raised his voice, calling to the men around the corner. 'It's alright! We got 'em!'

Frey saw the six men who'd fired on him come swaggering round the corner. 'Anything I can do?' Jez said in his ear. She'd been listening on the Ketty Jay.

'Stay put,' he whispered. 'Too many of 'em.'

'No whisperin'!' snapped one of their captors.

Frey decided that they weren't in imminent danger of being killed by someone with an itchy trigger finger, so it was time to get some answers. 'Who are you lot, anyway?' he asked.

'We should be askin' you that.'

'We're visitors. Looking for someone. Whatever little spat you've got going on here, it's no business of ours.'

'Lookin' for someone? Who?'

'Feller named Almore Roke. You know him?'

There were exclamations of surprise and horror, and a clatter of rifles being primed. Frey stared nervously at the cluster of barrels pointed at his head. 'I take it you do?' he said, his voice small.

'I knew they was in league with Roke!' one of the men said.

'I'm not in league with anybody!' Frey babbled rapidly. 'I'm after a man called Harvin Grist. I heard Roke used to be on his crew. He might know where Grist is. I just want information, that's all! No need for the guns! No need for the guns!'

There was silence as they considered him. Frey was aware that his credibility in Trinica's eyes may well have suffered following his less than manly display, but he decided he'd rather be alive than brave.

'They're mercs!' piped up a high voice. Frey saw the skinny boy that had lured them into the ambush. 'Kill 'em!'

Frey shot him a poisonous glance and wished him a horrible death by venereal disease.

'They ain't mercs,' said a grizzled voice from behind them. A middle-aged man was striding forward. He was stout as an oak, with white hair and white stubble on his unshaven cheeks. By the way the others deferred to him, Frey pegged him as their leader. 'We saw 'em fly in, didn't we? You saw their wings. Mercs wouldn't fly a piece o' shit like that.'

Frey bit his tongue. Even though it was a point in his favour, he was tempted to argue out of pride.

'See?' he said, his voice strained. 'Not mercs. Now can I ask what in rotting bastardy is going on here?'

The grizzled man waved at his companions and they stepped back, returning to a state of wary readiness.

'I'll tell you,' he said. 'Name's Oldrew Sprine. Yours?'

'Darian Frey.'

'Right. Now your friend Roke—'

'Not my friend,' Frey interjected quickly.

'—he's the big cheese in these parts. Took his ill-gotten pirate gains and went into a different kind o' piracy. Robbin' the common folk.'

'Sounds like a despicable sort,' Frey commiserated.

Sprine sneered. 'This town is greased wi' the blood, sweat and tears of miners like us. Roke is the company's representative here.'