The Black Lung Captain

by Chris Wooding

  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.

  '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.'

  Thirty-Seven

  The Battle Over Sakkan — Harkins Is Put Upon —

  Emanda - Many Manes - 'Choppin' Time!'

  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 detonat
ed 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.

  But the Blackhawks paid the price for ignoring him. His first salvo caught the formation squarely from above, ripping through the body of one of the craft and tearing the cockpit and pilot to pieces. The other two reacted before he could bring his guns to bear on them. They spiralled away crazily, spinning and turning, drawing G-forces that would have made a human pilot pass out.

  Harkins pulled out of his dive and raced away, hoping their evasive tactics would make them lose sight of him. Now that the surprise attack was over, he feared retribution.

  But his tactic was useless. The Blackhawks air-braked and came climbing towards him, hard and steep. A third one appeared from nowhere, slipping into formation to replace the one he'd destroyed. Suddenly Harkins found himself pursued by a trio of aircraft, a three-clawed pincer reaching up towards him.

  'Oh, this isn't bloody fair at all!' he squealed, as the air around him filled with tracer fire. He threw his craft left and right: diving, rolling, spiralling. Yellow incendiary bullets blazed past his wings. The Blackhawks shot past him. They braked, split apart, and in seconds they were back in formation again, right on his tail.

  Harkins craned around in his seat, trying to catch sight of them. He jinked left and then dived, evading them by instinct alone. A salvo of bullets shredded the air where he'd been a moment before.

  He tore down towards the heart of the conflict, risking the artillery barrage. Anything to get them off his back. Between evasions, he contorted himself in his cockpit, attempting to locate them. But the bastards were nailed to his blind spot and wouldn't be thrown off.

  His heart was thumping and his face was glistening with sweat. This was exactly what he'd feared would happen. The Blackhawks were out of his league. Messing with them was an invitation to get killed.

  Oh blimey, damn and shit, what've I just got myself into?

  Explosions all around him. Pummelling blasts of sound and flame and fury. He shrieked against the din. The Firecrow was thrown this way and that. He plunged past the flank of a dreadnought and caught a flash impression of the decks, seething with Manes like maggots on a carcass.

  Then the explosions faded, and he still wasn't dead. He slammed into a sequence of manoeuvres that pushed him to the limits of his endurance. Turns so steep that his vision sparkled and his head went light. Crushing dives that send the blood pulsing hard in his sinuses and forehead and threatened a red-out.

  He pulled up, head pounding. That's the best I've got, he thought. There's nothing more.

  Machine guns opened up on his tail. Bullets chipped his starboard wing. He spun away with a curse, craned over his shoulder, and caught a glimpse of them. "Right there, as if they'd never been away. They'd matched him move for move, implacable, just waiting for him to stop for an instant so they could shoot at him again.

  They weren't going to let up on him. He could dodge about as much as he liked. They'd be waiting when he got tired. Harkins felt the sick panic that came with the certainty that he was going to die.

  You should've run when you had the chance.

  'Shit!' he screamed, pounding the dash with his fist. 'Shit! Shit! Shit!'

  Machine guns sounded in a rattle. Harkins closed his eyes.

  Sorry, Jez.

  An explosion from behind him. His eyes flew open, and he twisted around in his seat.

  Behind him one of the Blackhawks was spinning towards the city below, minus a wing. The other two moved to dodge the barrage of bullets slicing up at them from below, but they were too late. The bullets smashed into the flank of the second Blackhawk and sent it spiralling sideways. It crashed into its companion, who was still in close formation. The two of them tangled in a squealing collision and exploded.

  'Waaa-hooo!' cried a familiar voice in Harkins' ear.

  'Pinn?' he said in disbelief.

  The Skylance came spinning through the cloud of smoke left by the destroyed Blackhawks.

  'The one and only!' Pinn said. 'Here to save your sorry arse again!'

  Pinn cackled. Damn, it was good to be alive! And there was nothing that made him feel quite so alive as murdering some dumb bastard who couldn't fly their aircraft as well as he could.

  He glanced at the ferrotype hanging from his dash. A new face was in the frame where Lisinda's had once been. A face infinitely more beautiful to Pinn's eyes. Those red curls. That expanse of white bosom. The adorable way her front teeth overlapped.

  Emanda.

  He'd already forgotten what his previous sweetheart looked like. She'd faded from his memory without a picture to remind him. Well, who cared anyway? Let her be with her new man. She'd regret it one day, when Pinn was a hero and word of his exploits spread far and wide. She'd weep into her pillow when she saw the ferrotypes of him in the broadsheets, with Emanda on his arm. Someone better, prettier, more witty and charming than her. Someone more perfect in every way.

  The face in the frame brought the memories flooding b
ack. Wonderful days in Kingspire, a heady haze of booze, cards and bedplay. He'd borrowed some of her money and turned it into ten times the amount. Just having Emanda by his side put him on a winning streak. And she never left his side, except when she was on top of him, or under him, or in any other position they could think of. Damn, that woman had an appetite! And Pinn liked a woman with appetite.

  How had he ever thought he wanted to be with Lisinda? She was a small-town girl with a small-town way of thinking. He'd dreamed of returning as a hero, but could he ever have settled into the dull, homely life she promised? No! What a lucky escape he'd had! The kind of life that Emanda offered, that was a life fit for a hero. That was the kind of woman he needed. A woman who could match him drink for drink, and who'd lead him to bed afterward.

  After a few days of blissful, overwhelming happiness, the fateful moment came. They'd been lying together in bed, drunk, and she'd thought he was asleep. She'd leaned over and slurred quietly in his ear.

  'You know, Artis Pinn, I think I'm falling in love with you.'

  That was when he knew she was the one. The only one he'd ever love. His heart thrilled at the realisation. He pretended to be asleep until he heard her begin to snore. Then he slipped out of bed, picked up a pen, and scribbled a note.

  He couldn't remember the exact words he'd used. He was barely sober enough to hold the pen. But he knew his lover would understand, the way she understood everything about him. He had to go, the note said, but he promised he'd be back. When he was rich. When he was a hero. When he was worthy to be with a woman like her.

  And with that, he slipped away. He fuelled up his Skylance with the money he'd made, and asked about till he found the town of Endurance. He got there just in time to see a flotilla of Navy frigates departing at speed. Going by past experience, he reckoned it'd be more than likely that the Cap'n was tangled up in this somehow, so he tagged along. When he got close enough to Sakkan, he began to pick up Harkins' fearful blubbering through his earcuff. After that, it was just a matter of tracking him down.