Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

Grist and his men had found their guns by now, and were rushing for whatever cover they could find, aiming futile shots at the enraged golem in their midst. Crake, Silo and Malvery came scrambling through the ruined doors and opened up with their own weapons, picking their targets. One of Grist's men caught a bullet and went down, clutching the back of his leg. He fell into Bess's path, and she stamped him flat.

Frey didn't know how his crew had got out or how they'd got their guns back, but he was damned pleased to see them. He turned his attention to Jez, who was still immobile, eyes unfocused. He went to check her breathing, then realised there was no point. He poked her in the nose instead. She blinked. A sign of sort-of life. Good enough for the moment.

The sphere. Where was the sphere?

He cast about for it. There! It had rolled free of Jez's hands and was lying near the base of the pedestal, beneath the daemon cage.

Grist had seen it too. Their eyes locked across the distance between them. Then both ran for it at the same moment.

Frey raced through the corridor of gunfire. Bullets scored the air around him. Bess was a bellowing mountain in the gloom, flinging furniture this way and that. But all his focus was on that sphere. He wasn't even sure what he'd do with it, now that it had been activated. But he knew he didn't want Grist to have it.

Both captains lunged together, and both laid hands on the sphere. They fell into a scrabbling tangle, each fighting to pull the prize from the other's grip. Grist's grimacing face was close to Frey's: hot, smoky breath, the smell of sweat and dirt. His eyes were dark with madness, that terrible rage that Frey had seen before. Frey fought hard, but Grist was a bull, who outweighed him by some considerable fraction. The contest was brief. Grist yanked the sphere from his fingers, and as Frey clutched for it, he drove a clublike fist into Frey's belly.

Frey stumbled away, hunched over and winded. Grist broke off in the other direction, but his momentum carried him into Trinica, who was retreating towards the back of the sanctum, seeking cover. Grist bowled her over and they went down in a mess of limbs, fighting one another for purchase. Grist came up first, dragging Trinica with him, but he didn't let her go. Instead he wrapped one thick arm round her throat - the one carrying the sphere - and with the other he drew his pistol and shoved it into her ribs. He backed away towards cover, with Trinica as his shield.

Grist's men had been decimated by the surprise attack. The last of them were being slaughtered by Bess or picked off by gunfire. The golem had just seized one of Grist's crew, and was raising him triumphantly over her head with both hands, ready to fling him to his death. Only Grist's bosun, Crattle, was still in the fight, hiding behind a bullet-riddled lectern, and the remainder of his life could be counted in seconds.

Frey saw, with a sudden flood of horror, what would happen next. He fought to drag in a breath.

In moments, it would be over. Grist was dead meat. He didn't have a chance. They'd turn their weapons on him, and gun him down, and that would be that.

But to get to Grist, they had to go through Trinica.

He found air at last. Sucked it in and yelled.

'STOP!'

His voice rang out with a volume and authority he hadn't realised he possessed. Friend and enemy alike froze, fingers on triggers.

Silence fell, broken only by the crescendo wail of Grist's crewman as he flew across the room to crunch against the far wall.

Bess made a bubbling noise in her chest that somehow managed to convey an apology.

All eyes went to Frey. Grist stood where he was, his gun in Trinica's ribs. Crattle stayed in hiding, hardly daring to believe his reprieve. The crewmen of the Ketty Jay waited expectantly.

He knew he should let his men loose. He had the power. Kill them all, Trinica too. Be done with all the bitterness and betrayal. It would be so damned good to see her die right now.

But he couldn't. Even with all the anger and hate inside him. This woman was a millstone around his neck, and yet he couldn't bring himself to get rid of her. She was his penance and his punishment. Of all the women he'd wronged, she was the only one that counted. She'd carried his child, and killed it too. Like a vengeful ghost, she followed him out of the past, taking on whichever shape best enabled her to hurt him. He'd never be free.

He wanted her gone. He so desperately wanted her out of his life. But she'd never leave him alone until she was dead, and he couldn't handle that eventuality. Her absence from the world would rob him of something vital, something he needed in order to keep on going. Without it, all that was left was that hollow feeling, the dreadful, indefinable lack that had inspired this whole sorry escapade in the first place.

A grin spread across Grist's face. The advantage was lost. Grist had figured him out. 'Thought so,' he said. He looked at Frey, down at Trinica, and then back to Frey again. 'Ain't that nice?'

Trinica watched him, her face blank. Was she afraid? Was she silently pleading with him to save her? No. Perhaps she simply didn't care if she lived or died. But how could he tell, in the end? How could he trust any emotion from her ever again?

He waved at his men. 'Let 'em go,' he said.

Malvery had his shotgun aimed squarely at Trinica and Grist. His eyes flicked from the gunsight to Frey.

'You what?' he asked, his voice flat with disbelief.

'You heard me.'

'You can't let them walk away,' said Crake. 'Not with that sphere. We'll need it if there's any hope of undoing what's been done.'

'Nobody's undoin' a bloody thing,' said Grist. 'We're walkin' out of here, sphere an' all, or your Cap'n's little missy gets a bullet.'

'Cap'n,' said Malvery, his voice tight with suppressed anger. 'She's a lying, backstabbing bitch and she ain't worth it.'

'I know, Doc,' said Frey. 'No one knows it better than me. But if any one of you pulls his trigger, it's the last thing you'll do as a crewman on the Ketty Jay.'

It wasn't often he had to threaten his crew nowadays. But they needed to know that he meant it. This wasn't a moment for dissent.

Malvery glared at him hard, and for a moment Frey thought he might actually do it: just blow them both away, Trinica and Grist alike, and take the consequences after. But then he spat on the ground, swore the foulest oath in his armoury, and stepped aside. Bess and the others followed his lead, clearing the way for Grist, Crattle and Trinica to get to the stairs.

'Get out of my damn sight,' Frey told Grist and his prisoner alike.

They left without another word. Grist circled close to the sanctum wall, keeping Trinica between himself and the guns trained on him. Crattle stayed close, looking grey, shaken by his close shave. Trinica didn't take her eyes from Frey's the whole time. He didn't flinch from her gaze. Damn her. Let her know that he was unbowed, even after this. It was through his mercy that she lived. She'd better know that.

Then they were gone, up the stairs and away. Weapons were lowered. Malvery kicked a chair to pieces in frustration. Frey closed his eyes and took a breath. Trinica was gone. He felt lighter already.

Crake went to Jez, who was stirring again. She seemed to have been hit harder than the rest of them by the effect of the sphere. Even now, she was dazed and distant. Frey joined them and hunkered down alongside.

'You alright, Jez?'

'I'm okay, Cap'n, I'm . . .' she trailed off, then looked around in alarm. 'They're here,' she said. 'The Manes. They're here.'

'Then we shouldn't be,' said Frey. He got to his feet. After all that had passed between him and Trinica, it felt good to deal with something he could understand. A crew. Orders. Action. 'I've had just about enough of this whole bloody mess. Grist, Trinica, the sphere . . . damn 'em all to a cold grave. What's done is done. We tried to stop it and failed. The people of this city can take care of themselves. We're not paid to be anyone's guardians.' He surveyed his crew. 'Back to the Ketty Jay. We're gone.'