The Black Lung Captain (52 page)

The grief he felt at the death of his niece was both old and new. He'd always known in his heart that he could never get her back, but he could never make himself believe it. Not until he'd tried. Now that he had, now that he'd seen the sheer impossibility of it, the weight of the task he'd placed upon himself was lessening day by day. It had taken Jez's harsh words to make him face up to himself.

It was strange. Bess, his niece, was dead. It was his responsibility, his hand that had wielded the blade. He would never shed the guilt of that. And yet he felt better now than he had for two years. He'd finaly accepted what he'd done, instead of trying to change it.

It hurt. Of course, it hurt, like a bright blade in his guts. But it was a clean hurt. The pain of healing. Not the slow, grim death that he'd been trying to blot out with alcohol. For the first time since his niece had died, he saw light. Sharp and hard, but light. And he wouldn't look away, no matter how it brought the tears to his eyes.

Malvery was suspicious of Crake's smile. He narrowed his eyes. 'You've got something up your sleeve, haven't you?' He hunkered down next to Crake and poked him in the ribs with a meaty finger. 'What you up to, eh?' he asked.

'You remember the first time Dracken captured us?' he said. 'Just outside Retribution Fals?'

'Ain't likely to forget it. We al nearly got hanged on account of her.'

'We put down in the Blackendraft,' said Crake. 'An endless, trackless waste of ash, far as the eye could see. I put Bess to sleep so she wouldn't attack anyone and get us al kiled. Trinica left her there when we flew off.'

'Right,' said Malvery. 'You were al in a gloom, thought you'd never see her again. But Jez found her. S'pose because of those Mane abilities she's got.' He paused. 'Never thought of that til now.'

'Yes. But if we hadn't got out of being hanged, or if Jez hadn't found Bess, then she'd have stayed asleep for ever. Like a metal statue in the middle of the wastes.'

'Where you heading with this, Crake?'

'Back in Marlen's Hook, you asked me if I'd done anything useful lately. Any new daemonic artefacts, any new techniques, that sort of thing.'

Malvery waved it off, embarrassed. 'Aw, mate. I was just giving you a kick in the arse, you know. Trying to get you to lay off the booze before you ended up like me.'

'I know,' said Crake. 'And I want to thank you for that. You and Jez, you both helped me a lot.'

Malvery shrugged. 'That's what friends do, right? They give it to you straight. Speaking of which, get back on the subject.'

'Look, the point was, what you said got me thinking. About that time with Bess. How it could happen again, and I might not be so lucky next time. If I put her to sleep, and I lost that damn whistle . . . then what? I might never be able to wake her up.'

'S'pose not. So what?'

'So, I taught her a few more whistles. A few more frequencies, you see. You can't hear them, and it takes a daemonist to make them work, but to Bess they're loud and clear. They make her do different things, rather than just put her to sleep indefinitely.'

'Like what?'

He looked at Malvery's pocket watch again. 'Like putting her to sleep for . . . oh, about half an hour.'

Malvery grinned. Crake grinned with him. Malvery took back his pocket watch and snapped the case shut.

'It's bloody good to have you back, mate,' said the doctor.

In the distance, the gunshots and screams began.

Something was amiss on the
Ketty Jay.

Slag opened his eyes slowly and licked his chops. The fur around his face stil carried the taste of rat blood. But it wasn't rats that had brought him out of his doze.

He got up and loped through the ventilation ducts, towards the cargo hold. Slag was the master of these hidden byways. It was his mission in life to keep them clear of invaders. The world outside was ful of those curious beings that occasionaly - unwisely - tried to touch him or pick him up. But they were too big to get into the vents. Here, it was Slag versus the rats. And while there had been some epic struggles in his time, fought against large and vicious opponents, Slag had always dominated. He'd never come across an enemy he couldn't beat. He didn't know the meaning of defeat.

He slipped out of the duct into the cargo hold. Cold air was blowing in from the outside, stirring his whiskers and chiling his nose. The cargo ramp was open.

Sounds came to him from beyond: people shouting to one another, the clank of machinery, the roar of thrusters as an aircraft accelerated overhead. The sharp tang of aerium gas, vented from a freighter that was touching down. The busy industry of landing pads was terrifying in contrast to the safety of his enclosed world. It was an assault on the senses that confused and intimidated him.

The cargo ramp being open was not unusual. Slag padded out into the centre of the room and sniffed.

That was it. That was what had woken him.

The cowardly one had dared to come aboard.

He made a sinister crooning noise from low in his throat. The thought of that pathetic specimen on his territory made him angry. He listened, and heard scurrying footsteps in the corridor overhead, the main passageway that ran down the spine of the aircraft.

This wasn't the first time, either. He knew his prey had sneaked aboard several times recently. Sometimes Slag detected him and chased him away. Other times, he'd been busy in the depths of the aircraft, and al that was left when he emerged was the sour smel of fear and sweat.

Slag's instinct was to chase him off again. But he was an old cat, a veteran of many secret wars, and he'd learned a thing or two. He knew how the rats would keep coming back, no matter how many times he kiled them. There were always more. Unless he hunted them down to their lair. Kil them there, kil the mothers, and the rats didn't come back.

He could chase off the intruder, but the intruder would return. It was time to take an altogether more crafty approach. He'd take the fight to his enemy.

Slag padded down the cargo ramp. He could see the enemy's lair, a few dozen yards away. The place where he slept and hid. The cowardly one was smugly content there, behind the transparent shel that sheltered him. Secure in the knowledge that Slag wouldn't cross the gap between the aircraft.

The sight of the Firecrow infuriated him. The shel was open, too. It was a taunt beyond endurance. His enemy thought Slag was too weak to come and get him.

He thought that Slag was too afraid to brave the sky.

But Slag refused to be afraid of anything.

He went down to the end of the ramp. Beyond it, dozens of people worked around a huge metal craft. Tractors chugged past, hauling jangling trailers of metal pipes. The air stank of petrol. There were so many threats out there. Too many to keep track of.

Above him, beyond the jutting stern of the
Ketty Jay
, there was no ceiling. Only a rucked blanket of feathery whiteness, impossibly high. The sheer
size
of the outside crushed him. He crouched down unconsciously, flattening his ears, making himself smal. Was the cowardly one
really
worth this? Wouldn't it be enough to simply chase him away again?

No. This had gone on too long. And Slag didn't know how to lose.

He put one paw out on to the cold surface of the landing pad, then looked around quickly, in case any of the roaring machines had noticed his transgression. He put his other paw down next to it.

Nothing happened. He glanced up at the sky. The hazy white blanket seemed to be staying up there.

He fixed his gaze on the enemy's lair. The open cockpit. The ladder rungs, built into the flank of the craft, that would take him there.

He moved hi- back legs : r: ard. until al four paws were on the tarmac. His tail stil lay flat on the lip of the cargo ramp. His last connection with the Ketty Jay.

The big people were occupied. The machines paid him no attention.

He steeled himself. Then he scampered forward.

For the first time in his long and violent life, Slag departed the
Ketty Jay
.

'Let me get this straight,' said Frey. 'You just said that activating that sphere would bring a horde of Manes down on us. So . . . er . . . exactly why would you want to do that? If you want to commit suicide, there's a gun in your hand. Do us al a favour.'

'Suicide?' Grist burst out laughing and ended with a wheeze. 'Oh, no, Cap'n. I ain't committing suicide. Just the opposite, actualy.' He sucked on his cigar and let it seep out through his lips. 'See, I'm dying anyway. You may have noticed this delicate little cough of mine? Wel, I got the Black Lung. The rot's eatin' me up from the inside. Docs said it were only a matter of time, and there weren't much o' that.' He held up his cigar and contemplated the glowing tip. 'Like I said, tobacco's a harsh mistress.' He stuck it back in his mouth and showed yelow teeth. 'But I don't wanna die, Cap'n Frey. I'm havin' too much fun livin'. And as far as I know, there's only one way to live for ever.'

Jez felt a jolt of horror as it clicked into place. 'You want to become a Mane,' she said.

Grist gave her a slow look.
'Now
you get it.'

'You,' said Frey, 'are bloody wel cracked in the head.'

'Think so?' Grist walked slowly around the daemonist's cage at the centre of the sanctum. 'Live for ever, maraudin' the skies?' he cried, his growling voice echoing into the darkness. 'Part of the greatest crew in existence? Possessin' who knows what supernatural abilities?' He puled on his cigar and blew out a plume of dirty smoke. 'Damn, I'l have my own craft in no time, mark my words. Man of my experience.' He nodded to himself. 'I can think of worse ways to spend eternity.'

Frey appeared to consider that. 'Nope,' he concluded at length. 'Stil cracked.'

Grist gave him a look. 'Some things are worth riskin'
every thin'
for.'

'Why do it this way?' Jez asked. 'Why do you need the sphere?' She felt panic clawing at her. She saw what was coming.

'You know how hard it is to find a Mane when you want one?' Grist said. 'They come without warning, and they're gone in a flash. No pattern, no rhyme or reason. Here's a man desperate to meet 'em and, even with my dad's notes, I couldn't get close. So I'l bring
them
to
me.'

'But why Sakkan? We could do this out in the snows. There's no need to unleash the Manes on al these people!'

'It's a gift,' said Grist. 'Best to announce myself with a bang, I reckon. "Here I am," I'l say. "And here's a thousand new recruits, an' al". I'l come to 'em as a hero.' He grinned. 'They won't be
dyin\
you know. Those who don't resist, they'l be turned. And you of al people should know that ain't so bad.'

Jez looked around at Grist's crewmates, hoping that some of them would react to this insanity. What she saw was not doubt but excitement. These few were Grist's inner circle. Perhaps they, too, dreamed of immortality. At any rate, Grist had persuaded them to his way of thinking. There would be no help there.

'And what about you?' she said to Trinica. 'Presumably
you
don't care if a whole city is taken by the Manes.'

'You presume correctly,' said Trinica.

'You think he's going to just let you go after explaining al this to you?' she demanded, pointing at Grist. 'He'l betray you, just like he did everyone else.'

'Actualy, ma'am, the only reason I'm explaining it at al is for Cap'n Dracken's benefit,' said Grist. 'Someone needs to know what happened here. Someone who can tel the tale of Cap'n Harvin Grist.'

He smiled nastily. 'Otherwise, how wil they know me when I come back for 'em?'

Jez stared. He wasn't just after immortality in the literal sense. He wanted to be a legend. The smuggler who destroyed a city. Who'd joined with the Manes.

And who one day might return at the head of a fleet of dreadnoughts. A man to strike fear into the hearts of everyone. They'd use his name to scare children.
Be
good, or Cap'n Grist will come for you.

'I'm a Mane,' she said. There was desperation in her voice. 'You don't need to do this. I can turn you!'

'Can you?' said Grist, scepticaly. 'A half-Mane like you? I don't reckon so. I know what you are, Miss Kyte. You ain't the first. I had my suspicions back on the dreadnought, and I knew for sure on the Flashpan, after we'd dealt with the
All Our Yesterdays.
Should've taken you then, saved us al a lot of trouble. But I got you now.'

'Let me try!' she begged.

'You ain't capable of giving the Invitation,' he said. 'You ain't even accepted it yourself.'

'The Invitation?' said Frey. 'Is that what you cal it?'

'Ain't what
I
cal it. That's what it's caled. But I got another use for a half-Mane.' He tossed the sphere to Jez. She caught it automaticaly. 'Make it work.'

Jez gazed at the sphere clutched in her hands. Just holding it made her nerves crackle. She'd known this moment would come, ever since Grist had confessed his desire to summon the Manes. No wonder nothing had happened during the month when they were searching for him. They'd been expecting news of some catastrophe al that time, and questioning why Grist, who finaly had his prize, wasn't using it. Here was the answer. He didn't know how.

But nor did Jez.

'I can't,' she said.

Grist motioned to two of his crewmen. They seized Frey and puled him over to a nearby table. One of them pressed a pistol to his head; the other was carrying a machete, and forced his hand down on to the wooden surface. Frey struggled and swore, but they were too strong for him. Trinica folded her arms and watched, not a flicker of distress on her face.

'Try,' said Grist. 'I done everything I could, but there ain't no notes on this thing in my father's research. And what I come to conclude is, it takes a Mane to activate it. You're only half o' what I need, but you'l do, I reckon.' His eyes were dark chips of stone beneath his heavy brows. 'So now I'm gonna give you one minute, then I'm gonna chop off your Cap'n's hand. Then I'l do the other one. Then I'l start on his feet. When I run out of limbs, I'm realy gonna start hurtin' him.