The Black Lung Captain (29 page)

Another craft raced past, close enough to make the Skylance shimmy in the turbulence. In this storm and at this speed, by the time he saw something in his path it would be far too late to evade. If he was going to hit something, he'd hit it. No point worrying, then. Pinn ignored the danger and concentrated on his target.

Tracer lire floated eerily through the blackness ahead of him. Some invisible conflict in the storm. For every blazing bulet he could see, there were five, just as deadly, that he couldn't. Harkins used to talk about them al the time, those unseen bulets in tracer fire.
They
were the ones that would get you, he said. But Pinn preferred to believe that if you couldn't see them, they weren't there.

He spotted his target as it fired again, and lined up on its tail. Harkins was yammering something in his ear, but he wasn't paying any attention. He'd learned to tune out his felow outflyer's near-constant state of panic in a firefight. Instead he flexed his finger over the trigger on his flight stick and waited for the right moment.

'Here it comes, you son of a bitch,' he muttered.

Lightning flashed and thunder roared. Pinn squeezed the trigger, but the Equaliser banked suddenly. The pilot had spotted him in the lightning flash. Bulets tore through the air around the Equaliser, smacking into its rear end. It dodged away, trailing smoke from its thruster. Pinn shot past, banked hard, came back around; but by then his target had disappeared.

'Did I get him?' he said to himself, searching the storm. 'Did I get him?'

In the distance, there was a dul explosion, and an aircraft was consumed by flames, heading earthwards like a meteor. His quarry, or someone else's? He didn't know. He'd claim it anyway, but it would have been nice to be sure.

Pinn had become detached from the fray, so he turned the Skylance back towards it, seeking new targets. The
Storm Dog
and the
Delirium Trigger
fought at the heart of the battlefield, high above the moors, flashing monsters of iron and steel. The smaler fighters hung close by, preying on each other.

His eyes flickered over the instrument panel on his dash, then settled on the ferrotype of Lisinda that hung from it. It was dangling and spinning on its chain, showing her face in teasing glimpses. He saddened at the sight of her. For a short time, lost in the thril of combat, he'd forgotten the empty ache in his guts, the sad, grey feeling that had settled on him lately. But one glimpse was enough to bring it al back.

What was she doing now? There was no date on that letter, no teling when it was sent. A month ago? Three? Was her new husband already enjoying her, this imposter who'd taken his place? Was she with him now, al creamy thighs and soft breasts, surging blankets and sighs? He'd never known her that way. She was too sacred, too pure to be sulied by anyone but a hero. But this newcomer had tricked her somehow, maybe even
forced
her into yielding to him.

The thought made him furious. He was no longer sad; he was consumed by a bitter, savage anger that flooded through his veins like molten metal.

'What's that weird grinding sound?' Harkins queried in his ear.

Pinn unclenched his teeth and gave a terrible howl of rage. Harkins squealed in fright. A flash of lightning lit up the battlefield, and a crack of thunder rocked the Skylance. Pinn saw aircraft swooping in the distance. He felt a deep need to avenge himself on the whole world. Those Equaliser bastards would be a good start.

The Skylance's engines shrieked as he flew at reckless speed towards the aircraft. Lightning, muzzle flashes and tracer fire drew him towards an Equaliser that was heading away from him. He gave chase, hoping to catch the pilot unawares, hoping to blast his sorry arse out of the sky before he even knew what was happening.

Then suddenly the air was ful of bulets. Tracer fire, flitting al around his craft. Sharp impacts as his hul and wings were hit. Pinn looked franticaly over his shoulder, yeled in alarm as the saw an Equaliser hanging on his tail, and roled out of the way.

'Pinn? Are you alright?' It was the Cap'n, but Pinn didn't have time for a chat right now.

'I think ... I mean, Cap'n, it sounds like he's gone crazy!' Harkins opined.

'Pinn? Have you gone crazy?'

'Wil you both bloody shut up?' Pinn cried. 'I've got an Equaliser on my tail!'

'Get over there and help him out!' Frey ordered Harkins.

'Where?'

'Near the frigates!" Pinn shouted. He banked hard, but the Equaliser stuck to him like glue. Just ahead, a bolt of lightning struck the
Storm Dog.
fizzing off her black hul. The
Storm Dog
shrugged it off and kept firing.

He heard the chatter of his pursuer's guns, but this time he was ready for it and he dodged. Another spray came out of nowhere; he barely puled away in time.

He twisted his neck, searching for the source.
Another
Equaliser, coming in high at seven o'clock. Pinn swore. Two of them, ganging up. Their cowardice infuriated him.

'Alright, shitwads." he snarled. I'l give you a chase.'

He broke hard to starboard, slipping out of the way of another voley of machine-gun fire. He'd caught a couple of hits, but the Skylance was stil handling wel.

The
Storm Dog
and
Delirium Trigger
slid into view in front of him. He boosted the thrusters and arrowed towards them.

The sudden jump in speed threw his pursuers for a few seconds. They forgot about shooting at him while they concentrated on catching up. Pinn considered engaging the Skylance's racing afterburners, leaving them al choking on his fumes, but that would mean abandoning the fight and the
Ketty Jay.
In the mood he was in, he wasn't about to do that. He wanted to kil someone first.

By the time the Equalisers had got back within firing range, the frigates loomed large before them. They were flying alongside each other, lumbering through the black sky, cannons blasting. The space between them was a mess of artilery fire and bulets. Pinn headed straight for it.

The Equalisers opened up on him. He swung left, left again, then dived, making himself a hard target. The frigates sweled as he neared them. An aley of death between them, their blasted metal flanks the wals. Turrets on the
Delirium Trigger
had swiveled to track him: he heard autocannons kicking in.

Go!

He roled hard and kept roling, corkscrewing wildly through the deadly mesh of gunfire. Explosions rattled the Skylance, knocking him off course, jerking him about in his seat. It was only a few seconds, but it seemed to stretch out for ever. He puled the Skylance level and rammed the thrusters to maximum, racing straight along the length of the frigates and out of the aley, whooping al the way.

He craned around in his seat in time to see one of his pursuers ripped to pieces in the crossfire. He couldn't see the other. Maybe that one hadn't been stupid enough to folow him in. Either way—

Machine guns. A rain of tracer fire from above. Pinn's head snapped up. An Equaliser, coming in from direcdy overhead. The Skylance was laid out flat beneath it, the whole craft presented as a target, with Pinn totaly exposed in his cockpit. Rookie mistake. The Equaliser couldn't miss. Pinn's heart sank.

Then the Equaliser erupted in a blast of oily fire, spinning away in a dozen separate pieces, fading to invisibility in the storm. Harkins' Firecrow sped across the sky in the opposite direction to Pinn.

'Pinn! Did he get you?'

Pinn slumped back in his seat. 'No. He didn't get me.'

'You let him come in from above!' Harkins snapped, sounding unaccountably outraged. 'You could have been kiled! Pay attention! What's wrong with you?'

'I don't know,' Pinn murmured, gazing at the ferrotype of Lisinda hanging from his dash. 'I don't know.'

Crake's palms were clammy and chil. The revolver in his hand felt like it weighed twice as much as usual. His heart skipped and tripped, little irregular bumps and flutters in his chest. He felt dried out and sick, and he was dog-tired from lack of sleep. On top of al that, he was probably going to get himself shot sometime in the next few minutes.

Not for the first time, Crake wondered how a man like himself, a man of good education, breeding and prospects, had ended up this way.

The cargo ramp was opening, squealing gently on its hydraulics. Cold wind blew in, stirring his hair and clothes. Tarpaulins flapped on the crates stacked nearby.

Between the booming of the thunder and the shudder of lightning, there was the quieter sound of distant cannon fire and machine guns.

Silo, Jez and Malvery were keyed up, fidgeting with anticipation. Frey was loading his revolver, his cutlass dangling from his belt. He'd taken out his earcuff.

unable to stand listening to Harkins and Pinn babble any longer. Jez would be their contact with the pilots.

Bess stood next to Crake, shifting restlessly. She smelt of old leather and machine grease. A thrumming noise came from her chest, a sign of tension and unease.

She knew what was coming. He laid a hand on her mailed elbow to calm her.

I'll fix you, Bess,
he thought.
I'll make this better somehow. For now, we have to get through this.

He just hoped she wouldn't get hurt. Even though he knew she was al but invulnerable to anything short of high explosives, he hated himself every7 time he alowed her to be sent into battle. But how could he explain his reluctance to the Cap'n without also confessing his crime? To the rest of the crew, Bess was just a dumb lump of metal. Only Jez knew the truth.

I'll be with you,
he told the golem silently.
Don't worry.

The ramp thumped down. Frey raised his pistol in the air, looked back at his crew and yeled, 'Board 'em!'

They ran down the ramp and out. Wind and rain assaulted them. The hardy moor grass whipped around their legs. A dozen kloms away, the flashing of cannons and the slow lines of tracer fire lit up the
Storm Dog
and the
Delirium Trigger,
caught in their own private war. Lightning flickered, scarring jagged paths through the night. The air was charged with it.

Before them, like some vast, slain creature of the deep, was the crumpled hulk of the Awakener barque. They were close enough now to see the name painted along the buckled hul:
All Our Yesterdays.
Smoke leaked from vents near its stern end. It lay in a trench that stretched away out of sight, the earth rucked up in piles al around it.

'The entrance wil be over there,' said Jez, pointing. Jez, the craftbuilder's daughter. She knew her aircraft better than any of them.

They salied across the gap between the aircraft and located the door that Jez had promised. There was no sign of anybody coming out of the
All Our
Yesterdays.
The door had been bent and twisted in the impact, and was half-buried by the banked-up soil. Bess dug it out with her hands, took hold of the edge, and tore it off.

Frey peered inside. 'We don't want any trouble!' he yeled. 'Put down your weapons, and you won't be—'

He was interrupted by a voley of gunfire, and jumped back sharply. 'Wel, I tried,' he said with a shrug. 'Get 'em, Bess.'

Bess roared and charged in through the door. There was a brief salvo of bulets, dissolving into screams and cries of alarm.

'Let's get in there,' Frey said, motioning to his crew. Then he plunged through the door, firing his revolver. The others piled in after him. Crake was not ashamed to be last.

Inside, it was chaos. Crake found himself in an assembly area, with a high ceiling and a gantry that ran around the edge of the chamber. The roof had split in the crash, shedding debris from the room above on to the floor. Cables hung in thick clusters like vines; exposed girders were bent and snapped off; cracked pipes leaked and hissed. A thin, poisonous pal of smoke hazed the air. Emergency lights provided a sinister twilight.

Hiding among the ruination were Sentinels, wearing grey, high-colared cassocks and carrying rifles. The Sentinels were Awakeners who didn't have the talent or the inteligence to become Speakers -those who preached and practised the Awakeners' craft - so they expressed their faith in other ways, by taking up weapons in defence of their organisation. Crake thought them mindless, brainwashed fools, but he supposed a bulet from a fool's gun hurt just as much as any other, so he kept his head down and ran for cover.

Bulets clipped through the air, but nobody was shooting at him: al attention was on Bess. The Sentinels scurried away or took frightened potshots from a distance as she ploughed into the room. Bulets bounced from her scratched and pitted armour, but some penetrated the soft parts at her joints, which only enraged her. She hefted a huge girder and lobbed it at her tormentors, mangling two Sentinels who were making a break for safety. The act of picking it up revealed a third Sentinel, who'd been hiding behind it. He was crouched in a bal, head in his arms, trembling. Bess looked down at him with a quizzical purr and booted him across the chamber.

Crake winced. He didn't like seeing her this way. She was a child, and she had a child's way with violence: thoughtless, gleeful, malevolent. Her good nature turned so easily to viciousness.

Frey and Silo scampered across the room, sniping at the retreating Sentinels. Crake stuck close to Jez and Malvery, who provided covering fire. They moved between the debris, keeping low. Crake squeezed off a shot now and then, without much expectation of hitting anything. Occasional bulets came their way, but the resistance from the Sentinels had crumbled quickly at the sight of the golem, and they were too busy running to put up much of a fight.

Bess lunged among them like a cat in a flock of pigeons, snatching up those she could. She was quick and terrible when angry. Crake saw her grab one man by the head, clamping her massive fingers round his skul and picking him up off the ground. She shook him like a dol and then, satisfied he was broken, she flung his corpse at his panicked felows.