Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

'You gleaned anything from that feller?' asked Frey, thumbing at the door.

'Not a thing,' said Samandra.

'But then, we haven't really got going on him yet,' added Grissom, spinning a knife in his palm.

'It's got to be something important, though,' said Frey. 'Sammies don't come out into the open much. They've got the Dakkadians to do all their deals and the Murthians for all their dirty work. The whole time I was flying to the front, during the war, I never spotted a Sammie. That's the first one I ever saw outside of a ferrotype.'

'A fact that hasn't escaped our attention,' said Samandra. She looked over his shoulder. 'Is your man alright, by the way?'

Frey followed her gaze to Silo. He was pacing back and forth on the other side of the room, stalking this way and that like a caged animal. His fists clenched and unclenched, eyes focused on something far away. The picture of agitation. Frey had never seen him act that way.

'Hm,' said Frey. 'He doesn't look too alright, does he?'

'Not really.'

Frey watched Silo for a few moments, wondering what was up with him.

'Perhaps you should have a word?' Samandra suggested.

'Oh, right. Yes, I will.'

'I'll see about getting you fellers tooled up again. You're not gonna be much use if those miners pull anything and all you've got between you is a cutlass.'

'New guns?' Frey's eyes lit up.

She indicated the mercs that were lolling about. 'Courtesy of the company, of course. They've got enough kit stashed away to supply an army.'

Frey beamed. 'Wouldn't say no. Silo and Malvery prefer shotguns, if you please.'

'Well, alright then.'

Frey went over to Silo while Samandra ordered the mercs to fetch up the weapons. Silo saw him approach. His eyes flashed angrily.

'Hey, hey, calm down,' said Frey. 'What's got into you?'

Silo glared at him, then at the door. Frey realised all of a sudden what was bothering him. He felt a little stupid for not having seen it before. In that room was one of the people who'd enslaved Silo's race for half a millenium. Frey could only imagine what kind of treatment he'd suffered at the hands of the Sammies in his lifetime. Almost certainly he'd lost friends and relatives to them at some point. And now, for the first time since his escape from Samaria, he was in the presence of one of his hated tormentors. No wonder he was keyed up.

Frey had never really thought about Silo's life before they met. As far as he was concerned, the Murthian's history began the day he found Frey dying from a stomach wound inflicted by a Dakkadian bayonet, somewhere in the jungle depths of northern Samaria. He'd nursed Frey back to health, and Frey had flown him out of Samaria and out of slavery. They'd been together ever since, in unspoken and unspeaking companionship. Neither asked anything of the other, and each expected nothing in return. By the act of saving each other's lives they'd forged a bond more subtle than any expression of loyalty.

Frey put his hand on the engineer's shoulder. 'Don't let it get to you, Silo. He's got no power over you here. Not unless you give it to him.'

Silo seemed rather surprised at hearing something wise from his captain's lips. Frey was rather surprised himself. He was on good form today, apparently.

Silo took in a long breath and blew it out. 'You're right. I ain't the 'prisoned one now.' He stepped from one foot to the other. Calmer, but still fidgety. 'Sorry, Cap'n. Brings it back, that's all. Knowing there's one of 'em in there.'

Frey patted his shoulder. 'Hold it together, eh?' he said in what he hoped was an encouraging fashion. He walked away, passing Malvery as he did so.

'Keep an eye on him,' he murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

'Right-o,' said Malvery.

Trinica was looking out of the window that gave a view of the refinery floor. She'd been keeping quiet and out of the way since the Century- Knights had first appeared. Frey joined her.

'How're you doing?'

'I'm fine,' she said. 'We should see about speaking to Roke.'

'Better if I do it,' he replied. 'Keep you out of the picture. You're supposed to be a passenger.'

She nodded. 'Do what you can.'

She seemed careless of the presence of the Century Knights. It was as if, without her outfit and her make-up, she really was a different person. An alter ego. One which carried no responsibility for the things done by Trinica Dracken, pirate captain. Given her sometimes fractured state of mind, he wondered if she really had separated one from the other. Perhaps, when she put on her disguise of black clothes and white skin, she put on a colder, harder personality with it. It certainly seemed that every day she spent without them, she became more and more like the young woman Frey had once known. Known, and loved. But maybe he was just being fanciful.

He approached Samandra, who was talking with Grissom. She stopped when he came near. 'Something I can help you with, Captain Frey?'

'I want to see Roke.'

'You do, huh? I wondered when you'd get round to asking. No other reason why you'd be in Endurance that I can see.'

'So, can I?'

'I should warn you, he's not been the most talkative of souls.'

'I can be persuasive when I try.'

'I've no doubt. You're welcome to talk with him, but I'll be in there with you. And no rough stuff. He's a powerful man, and we're the Archduke's right hand. Wouldn't do. You understand?'

'Yeah,' said Frey, vaguely disappointed. Getting answers was so much easier when you could boot your victim all over the room. 'I get it.'

She led him down a corridor to another office. The overseers' area was stark and bare, with as much furniture as was necessary to function and little else. He suspected that the real money-makers in the company had plusher offices elsewhere, away from the noise and stink of a refinery in full flow.

Sitting behind a desk, writing a letter, was Almore Roke. He was an erect, imperious-looking man with a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard. One eyebrow drooped, giving him an expression that suggested permanent suspicion. He wore a neat suit and silver cufflinks.

'Who's this?' he demanded, peering at Frey.

'Captain Darian Frey of the Ketty Jay ,' Frey replied. He stepped into the room, and Samandra came with him. 'I hear you used to serve on Harvin Grist's crew.'

Roke tossed down his pen and sat back in his chair, arms crossed petulantly. 'This again? What of it?'

'I'm looking for him.'

'So is she,' Roke said, jutting his chin towards Samandra. 'Why should I care?'

Roke's accent was a strange mix between the rough, guttural tones of the commoner, and a crisper, fluting aristocratic lilt. A man born poor, now trying to pass himself off as one of the rich. Frey doubted he was fooling anyone.

'I'm wondering if you have in mind any places he might be,' said Frey. 'Hideouts he once used, familiar haunts, that kind of thing. It's very important that we find him.'

'Is it? Why?'

'Because otherwise he might end up killing a lot of people.'

Samandra stared at him in surprise. 'Excuse me?'

'That device he's got. We reckon the Awakeners know what it is. And they seem to think it could cost thousands of lives.'

'I thought it was a power source?' Samandra said.

'So did we. It's not.'

Roke was watching their exchange with amusement. 'I know where he is,' Roke said. 'His hideout. If he's gone to ground, he's gone there.'

'And?'

'And,' said the businessman, stretching his back, 'I'll tell you after I get an apology from her, and on the condition that my guest and I are released and given safe passage to a port of our choice.'

'Your guest? The Sammie?'

'Vulgar term,' said Roke, with a sneer. 'They're a fascinating people, very cultured. A shame the common man can't forgive what's happened in the past.'