Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

He sighted on the slower one: a bulky, muscular monster, skin stretched like parchment over taut muscle, wearing little more than tatters and rags in the arctic chill. His own hands were freezing and numb, but he still squeezed off a shot. Non-lethal wounds didn't seem to slow them, and he knew from experience with Jez that they didn't need a heart. Aim for the head, then.

He did, and he missed.

Bess pounded up the street to cover their retreat. She tackled the Manes fearlessly. The Manes faltered. Presumably, they were accustomed to their enemies being afraid of them; but Bess was afraid of nothing. Frey took another shot at the bulky one, who was too occupied with Bess to evade. The shot wasn't good - his fingers slipped a little as he fired - but he got lucky. There was a small puff of red mist from the Mane's head, and its legs crumpled beneath it.

The two remaining Manes swarmed over Bess. They battered and scratched at her uselessly. She flailed about like a bear who'd disturbed a wasp's nest. The others aimed, but none fired. They couldn't shoot without hitting the golem.

'Fall back!' he yelled at the others. 'Bess can handle them! They can't hurt her!'

They obeyed gladly. Nobody wanted to get into a stand-up fight with the Manes. They just wanted to get back to the Ketty Jay alive. Malvery, Crake and Silo backed off while Frey and Jez covered them.

He cast a quick glance at Jez, who was standing next to him, sighting along a rifle. She'd shaken off the daze that had taken her after she'd activated the sphere, and now she was hard-faced and sharp.

'You okay?' he muttered to her.

'You mean, am I okay with shooting at my own kind?'

'Right.'

One of the Manes, a female with long, tangled hair, jumped off Bess's back, giving up on her. It came running up the street towards them. Jez narrowed her eye and squeezed the trigger. The Mane flickered, shifting left and right so rapidly that seemed it was in three places at once. Jez hit it anyway, dead in the forehead. It spun off its feet and crashed to the cobbles.

'I've picked my side,' she said.

The final Mane was quick, but it couldn't dodge Bess's grasping hands forever. She snagged its ankle, pulled it writhing into the air, then grabbed its head in one metal hand and pulled it off, dragging a length of bloody spine with it.

They headed off in the direction of the landing pad. The sloping, angled streets of Sakkan were in chaos. People ran with no destination in mind. The unnatural fear brought on by the dreadnoughts had turned them into panicking sheep, fleeing the wolves among them. A man bolted screaming across their path, closely pursued by a Mane, which ignored them totally as it chased its prey into a side alley.

They didn't intervene. There was nothing they could do. They had enough on their hands.

I tried to stop this! Frey thought angrily. I tried my best! But now it's every man for himself.

The Manes were up above them, springing from roof to roof. Strange, feral howls drifted over the city, punctuated by gunfire and the shrieks of the unfortunate citizens. Frey's crew were spotted from time to time, but the Manes sought easier prey than an armed gang. They hunted the vulnerable, those who were alone and unarmed. That was how they worked, according to the stories. They took the ones they could, and killed the ones they couldn't. The few who got away lived to spread the stories.

Frey's mouth was dry. Were it not for Bess, they'd have been dead by now. The Manes were coming from all directions, and they weren't like ordinary opponents. They had no weapons but they attacked without fear, running on to their enemies' guns. They were relentless, confident in their speed, able to absorb most wounds with impunity. But Bess was an obstacle they couldn't handle. They hadn't found a way to hurt her yet.

Frey and his crew retraced the route they'd taken to Grist's warehouse, following the major roads. It was uncomfortably open and exposed, but he couldn't risk getting lost. Besides, he suspected that the narrow alleys and side streets were where the Manes liked to catch their prey. At least out here he could see them coming.

Trinica.

He tried to cast her out of his mind, but couldn't. His last sight of her was burned on his memory. That face, those eyes; in the end, she'd given him nothing. No gratitude, no condemnation, no love or hate. A blank. And yet still he felt as if she was disappointed in him. Like he'd committed a betrayal.

I saved her bloody life! he told himself. And yet by doing so, he'd thrown her to the sharks.

She'd done worse to him, it was true. But no matter how strong the argument, he couldn't convince himself. No matter which way he turned it, he didn't seem to win. Even after everything she'd done to him, he felt like he'd abandoned her. And it gnawed at him as they fled.

His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion behind him. They stopped and turned, guns ready. Several dozen people came fleeing out of a cross-street and raced towards them. They sprinted past, eyes wide, flailing and stumbling as they went. The sight of Bess didn't cow them in the slightest: they were already maddened with terror. One woman ran straight into the golem and knocked herself cold. Frey could do nothing but brace himself against the stampede and fend off those who looked like they were about to bowl him over.

In moments, the crazed crowd had passed. The crew looked at one another, rather amazed that nobody had been trampled.

'Well,' said Malvery. 'They were in a hurry for something.'

'What worries me,' Crake said, 'is what they were hurrying away from.'

Frey felt his stomach sink. As the screams of the crowd faded, he could hear howls and shrieks, swelling, multiplying, rolling towards them like a tidal wave.

'Run!' he cried, and they turned tail and followed the departing crowd just as a horde of Manes exploded from the cross-street and came tearing hungrily towards them.

Frey's boots pounded the cobblestones, as fast as he could manage, driven by the fear of what was behind him. The noise of the horde was terrible: their wild baying seemed to be meant for him alone. He was amazed to see Malvery accelerating away ahead of them, arms pumping; the overweight, alcoholic doctor had found a surprising well of vigour all of a sudden.

Panic crept in at the edges of his thoughts. They'd never outrun their pursuit. The Manes were faster, and they wouldn't tire. They'd be caught, and then there would be the teeth and filthy claws and -worse, perhaps - the Invitation.

I don't want to be like them! I'm too damned handsome to be a ghoul!

He'd sell himself dearly, if it came to that. He wouldn't let them take him alive.

The street dipped ahead of them, heading into a sunken square surrounded by towering rows of merchant's offices and banks. Gunfire and the dull thump of an autocannon sounded from within the square. Frey's heart lifted. A squadron of Ducal Militia? Whatever it was, it was hope. At least the militia were liable to be on their side. And they had a big gun.

He poured on the speed and burst into the square just behind Malvery. Scattered Mane corpses lay about, a few citizens among them. The crowd that had passed Frey earlier were scattering in different directions, dividing between the square's various exits. Striding through their midst were five figures Frey recognised.

Samandra Bree, Colden Grudge, Eldrew Grissom, Mordric Jask. And at their head, the bulky, grizzled figure of Kedmund Drave, the Archduke's most feared troubleshooter.

He'd hoped for a squadron of militia. He got five Century Knights. Given the choice, he'd have taken this option any day.

He staggered to a halt in front of Samandra. She tipped her tricorn hat back with the barrel of a shotgun and gave him a dazzling smile.