Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

'S'pose not. So what?'

'So, I taught her a few more whistles. A few more frequencies, you see. You can't hear them, and it takes a daemonist to make them work, but to Bess they're loud and clear. They make her do different things, rather than just put her to sleep indefinitely.'

'Like what?'

He looked at Malvery's pocket watch again. 'Like putting her to sleep for . . . oh, about half an hour.'

Malvery grinned. Crake grinned with him. Malvery took back his pocket watch and snapped the case shut.

'It's bloody good to have you back, mate,' said the doctor.

In the distance, the gunshots and screams began.

Something was amiss on the Ketty Jay.

Slag opened his eyes slowly and licked his chops. The fur around his face still carried the taste of rat blood. But it wasn't rats that had brought him out of his doze.

He got up and loped through the ventilation ducts, towards the cargo hold. Slag was the master of these hidden byways. It was his mission in life to keep them clear of invaders. The world outside was full of those curious beings that occasionally - unwisely - tried to touch him or pick him up. But they were too big to get into the vents. Here, it was Slag versus the rats. And while there had been some epic struggles in his time, fought against large and vicious opponents, Slag had always dominated. He'd never come across an enemy he couldn't beat. He didn't know the meaning of defeat.

He slipped out of the duct into the cargo hold. Cold air was blowing in from the outside, stirring his whiskers and chilling his nose. The cargo ramp was open. Sounds came to him from beyond: people shouting to one another, the clank of machinery, the roar of thrusters as an aircraft accelerated overhead. The sharp tang of aerium gas, vented from a freighter that was touching down. The busy industry of landing pads was terrifying in contrast to the safety of his enclosed world. It was an assault on the senses that confused and intimidated him.

The cargo ramp being open was not unusual. Slag padded out into the centre of the room and sniffed.

That was it. That was what had woken him.

The cowardly one had dared to come aboard.

He made a sinister crooning noise from low in his throat. The thought of that pathetic specimen on his territory made him angry. He listened, and heard scurrying footsteps in the corridor overhead, the main passageway that ran down the spine of the aircraft.

This wasn't the first time, either. He knew his prey had sneaked aboard several times recently. Sometimes Slag detected him and chased him away. Other times, he'd been busy in the depths of the aircraft, and all that was left when he emerged was the sour smell of fear and sweat.

Slag's instinct was to chase him off again. But he was an old cat, a veteran of many secret wars, and he'd learned a thing or two. He knew how the rats would keep coming back, no matter how many times he killed them. There were always more. Unless he hunted them down to their lair. Kill them there, kill the mothers, and the rats didn't come back.

He could chase off the intruder, but the intruder would return. It was time to take an altogether more crafty approach. He'd take the fight to his enemy.

Slag padded down the cargo ramp. He could see the enemy's lair, a few dozen yards away. The place where he slept and hid. The cowardly one was smugly content there, behind the transparent shell that sheltered him. Secure in the knowledge that Slag wouldn't cross the gap between the aircraft.

The sight of the Firecrow infuriated him. The shell was open, too. It was a taunt beyond endurance. His enemy thought Slag was too weak to come and get him. He thought that Slag was too afraid to brave the sky.

But Slag refused to be afraid of anything.

He went down to the end of the ramp. Beyond it, dozens of people worked around a huge metal craft. Tractors chugged past, hauling jangling trailers of metal pipes. The air stank of petrol. There were so many threats out there. Too many to keep track of.

Above him, beyond the jutting stern of the Ketty Jay , there was no ceiling. Only a rucked blanket of feathery whiteness, impossibly high. The sheer size of the outside crushed him. He crouched down unconsciously, flattening his ears, making himself small. Was the cowardly one really worth this? Wouldn't it be enough to simply chase him away again?

No. This had gone on too long. And Slag didn't know how to lose.

He put one paw out on to the cold surface of the landing pad, then looked around quickly, in case any of the roaring machines had noticed his transgression. He put his other paw down next to it.

Nothing happened. He glanced up at the sky. The hazy white blanket seemed to be staying up there.

He fixed his gaze on the enemy's lair. The open cockpit. The ladder rungs, built into the flank of the craft, that would take him there.

He moved hi- back legs : r :ard. until all four paws were on the tarmac. His tail still lay flat on the lip of the cargo ramp. His last connection with the Ketty Jay.

The big people were occupied. The machines paid him no attention.

He steeled himself. Then he scampered forward.

For the first time in his long and violent life, Slag departed the Ketty Jay .

'Let me get this straight,' said Frey. 'You just said that activating that sphere would bring a horde of Manes down on us. So . . . er . . . exactly why would you want to do that? If you want to commit suicide, there's a gun in your hand. Do us all a favour.'

'Suicide?' Grist burst out laughing and ended with a wheeze. 'Oh, no, Cap'n. I ain't committing suicide. Just the opposite, actually.' He sucked on his cigar and let it seep out through his lips. 'See, I'm dying anyway. You may have noticed this delicate little cough of mine? Well, I got the Black Lung. The rot's eatin' me up from the inside. Docs said it were only a matter of time, and there weren't much o' that.' He held up his cigar and contemplated the glowing tip. 'Like I said, tobacco's a harsh mistress.' He stuck it back in his mouth and showed yellow teeth. 'But I don't wanna die, Cap'n Frey. I'm havin' too much fun livin'. And as far as I know, there's only one way to live for ever.'

Jez felt a jolt of horror as it clicked into place. 'You want to become a Mane,' she said.

Grist gave her a slow look. 'Now you get it.'

'You,' said Frey, 'are bloody well cracked in the head.'

'Think so?' Grist walked slowly around the daemonist's cage at the centre of the sanctum. 'Live for ever, maraudin' the skies?' he cried, his growling voice echoing into the darkness. 'Part of the greatest crew in existence? Possessin' who knows what supernatural abilities?' He pulled on his cigar and blew out a plume of dirty smoke. 'Damn, I'll have my own craft in no time, mark my words. Man of my experience.' He nodded to himself. 'I can think of worse ways to spend eternity.'

Frey appeared to consider that. 'Nope,' he concluded at length. 'Still cracked.'

Grist gave him a look. 'Some things are worth riskin' every thin' for.'

'Why do it this way?' Jez asked. 'Why do you need the sphere?' She felt panic clawing at her. She saw what was coming.

'You know how hard it is to find a Mane when you want one?' Grist said. 'They come without warning, and they're gone in a flash. No pattern, no rhyme or reason. Here's a man desperate to meet 'em and, even with my dad's notes, I couldn't get close. So I'll bring them to me.'

'But why Sakkan? We could do this out in the snows. There's no need to unleash the Manes on all these people!'

'It's a gift,' said Grist. 'Best to announce myself with a bang, I reckon. "Here I am," I'll say. "And here's a thousand new recruits, an' all". I'll come to 'em as a hero.' He grinned. 'They won't be dyin\ you know. Those who don't resist, they'll be turned. And you of all people should know that ain't so bad.'