Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

'How's this, then? You again?'

'Yeah,' he panted. 'It's me.' He stuck a thumb over his shoulder. 'And I brought some friends.'

Samandra looked past him at the squealing horde of Manes piling down the street towards the square. 'So you did.'

The Navy frigates ploughed on towards the city, shedding fighter craft like glittering shards. Windblades streaked away ahead of the flotilla, joining up in formation as they raced to engage the enemy. The dreadnoughts were still out of range of the frigates' artillery, but that would change in a matter of minutes. The battle was about to begin.

Harkins kept to the edges of the battle zone, palms clammy and mouth dry. The Manes ignored him, as they ignored all the aircraft that were fleeing Sakkan. But Harkins wasn't fleeing. He was waiting for the Windblades to arrive. If he couldn't defend Jez on the ground, he could at least defend her in the air.

The dreadnoughts had risen away from the city streets and were readying themselves to meet the attack. They kept no formation that Harkins could recognise, but there was still an unmistakable coordination in their movements. They shifted and circled in perfect sync. It was a fluid defensive strategy that kept them moving, kept them separated, and made them difficult targets.

Harkins listened to the Firecrow's engines. He concentrated on the feel of the flight stick in his hand, the reassuring certainty of the instruments on his dash, the press of the seat against his back. It helped steel his nerve. He needed to slow his heartbeat, to fight the tightness in his chest and the sickness in his stomach. To overcome the terror of the battle to come.

Even the smell of the cockpit made him feel safe, the stink of his own sweat and the urine soaked into his trousers. Except that, every now and then, he still caught the scent of cat musk.

No. Just his imagination. He was all alone. Even the voices of his crew had gone silent. He'd heard gunshots and muffled voices, and a scuffle, and something bellowing that was probably Bess. After that, he didn't recognise any of the speakers, except one that he thought might have been that stinking bastard Grist. But wherever the ear-cuffs were now, they weren't with Jez. He could only hope that she hadn't been hurt.

Get out of here, said the panicked, fluttering voice of cowardice. She's gone. Probably dead. More dead than usual, I mean. There's no sense joining her. Just take off.

But that would be the final admission that he was worthless. The humiliations he'd suffered at the paws of the Ketty Jay's cat had whittied his pride to a shred, but it was the last shred he had, and he didn't want to let go of it. So he gritted his teeth, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and tried to think brave thoughts.

You can't hurt them anyway, the voice persisted. What are you going to do? Your little machine guns against armoured frigates? You won't even scratch them.

That was true. But Harkins wasn't planning on attacking the dreadnoughts directly. He'd heard stories about the Manes. The dreadnoughts had more than cannons to defend themselves.

As the Windblades approached, the dreadnoughts released their Blackhawks.

They slid from recesses in the flanks of their mothercraft and swooped out into the sky in a dark flock. It chilled Harkins to see them, and he had to withstand another assault on his resolve. They were so damned unnatural. Their wings swept far forward, curving to either side of the cockpit. The front end of the cockpits were round windows, through which their hideous pilots could be seen. Their very shape defied the laws of aerodynamics. Aerium engines had long since removed the need for wing lift in aircraft, but it should have been impossible to bank and turn at speed with their wings slanted so far forward, like the tines of a meat-fork. There was no tail assembly or rudder, only a blunt back end housing a thruster. How did they steer?

But however they did it, they did it well. Unlike the dreadnoughts, the Blackhawks flew in threes or sixes, in formations so tight they seemed suicidal. Yet they yawed and dived all together, like birds or bats, as if all the pilots were of exactly the same mind. Their coordination was literally inhuman.

You really want to fight these?

He really didn't. But he was going to anyway.

The Windblades' assault had been carefully timed so that they'd reach the enemy just after the frigates came into range. The effect was shattering. The sky over the city detonated in a terrifying thunder of smoke and flame. Great chains of explosions ripped among the dreadnoughts, sending the Blackhawks wheeling away. For a few brief moments, the enemy were in disarray, their formations buckled by the force of the fusillade. The Windblades lanced through the artillery haze and opened up with their machine guns.

The first assault was devastating. The sleek Windblades cut into their enemy, guns spitting, ripping through exposed flanks and keels. The Blackhawks tried to evade, but the ferocity of the attack overwhelmed them. Some went plunging earthward, trailing smoke. Others were torn into dirty balls of fire, their wings spinning away through the sky.

But the Windblades dominance was short-lived. The Blackhawks snapped back into formation with unbelievable speed. Shattered groups of fighters merged into units, locking in as if drawn together by magnets. The Manes were on the counter-attack faster than anyone could have predicted. The Windblades found themselves surrounded and under fire in moments.

A second wave of artillery came in, this time aimed at the dreadnoughts. The powerful guns of the dreadnoughts bellowed in reply. At this range the shots were speculative, but still deadly if they hit home.

Harkins shuddered and shook in his cockpit. He was flying high and to starboard of the main body of Mane craft. Below, beyond his port wing, he could see down on to the deck of one of the dreadnoughts. It swarmed with nightmarish figures, leering and strange. Some wore rags, others wore motley, still others strode among them in outlandish armour. He saw one that was a giant, at least eight feet tall, arms bulging with veined muscles and a neck thick as an ox's. They manned deck guns, ran back and forth with ammunition, or took potshots with rifles as the Windblades flew by. A filthy horde, yowling and shrieking, terrifying in aspect.

His hands gripped the flight stick hard. Blackhawks and dreadnaughts alike had ignored him so far. It wasn't too late to back out. How could a man race up to such daemonic savagery?

Leave. Just go.

No.

She's dead. It's not worth it. Live to fight another day.

But what if she wasn't? He couldn't bear the disappointment in her eyes if she knew he'd left her.

They'll kill you!

He gritted his teeth and let out a high wail that was his best approximation of a battle cry. Then, before he could think any better of it, he thrust the stick forward and plunged into the fray.

The sound of the Firecrow's engines rose to a scream as he dived. Below him were three Blackhawks, flying across his path, apparently oblivious to him. He didn't much fancy taking on three, so he looked about for a single Blackhawk, one that was damaged or detached from the flock. There were none to be seen. It was three, or nothing.

Three it was. He wouldn't let himself back out now. He'd do it for Jez.

He took aim, accounting for speed and distance with an expert eye. He sucked in a deep breath, let it out, and squeezed the trigger.

The brash clatter of his machine guns made him jump. They seemed exceptionally loud. By firing them he'd broken his silence, and invited the attention of the enemy.