The Black Lung Captain (56 page)

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 exceptionaly 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 spiraled away crazily, spinning and turning, drawing G-forces that would have made a human pilot pass out.

Harkins puled 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 al!' he squealed, as the air around him filed with tracer fire. He threw his craft left and right: diving, roling, spiraling. Yelow incendiary bulets 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 bulets shredded the air where he'd been a moment before.

He tore down towards the heart of the conflict, risking the artilery 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 kiled.

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

Explosions al around him. Pummeling 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 stil 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 puled up, head pounding.
That's the best I've got
, he thought.
There's nothing more.

Machine guns opened up on his tail. Bulets 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 bulets slicing up at them from below, but they were too late. The bulets smashed into the flank of the second Blackhawk and sent it spiraling sideways. It crashed into its companion, who was stil in close formation. The two of them tangled in a squealing colision 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 wel 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. Wel, 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 pilow 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 back. 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 smal-town girl with a smal-town way of thinking. He'd dreamed of returning as a hero, but could he ever have settled into the dul, 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 faling in love with you.'

That was when he knew she was the one. The only one he'd ever love. His heart thriled 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 fueled up his Skylance with the money he'd made, and asked about til he found the town of Endurance. He got there just in time to see a flotila 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.

He'd arrived just in the nick of time, it seemed. The way heroes were supposed to.

'You ready to get back in there, you shuddery old dog?' he asked Harkins.

'I suppose, I . . . Wait a . . . No. Yes. Ready.'

'Alright. Folow me down.'

'Pinn?'

'What?'

There was a pause. 'It's . . . that is . . . I'm . . . er . . .' He stopped and colected himself. "It's good to see you,' he said at last.

Pinn felt a smile spread across his face. 'Good to see you too,' he said, and was surprised to find that he meant it. Then he shoved his flight stick forward and dived towards the enemy, whooping al the way.

Time to make himself a hero. Emanda deserved nothing less.

The Manes came in a flood. The Century Knights were waiting for them.

They stood in a line, guns raised, in front of the massive stone fountain that formed the centrepiece of the sunken square. They'd had only seconds to organise themselves, but they did so quickly and smoothly at an order from Kedmund Drave. They were a wel-oiled unit, disciplined and deadly. The Archduke's elite: the best of the best.

Frey and his crew stood with them.

When they first met the Knights in the square, Frey had half a mind to keep on running and let the Knights deal with the Manes at their back. At least they might slow the pursuit a bit before they were overwhelmed. But he'd made a snap decision, and, absurdly, decided to stay. He'd begun to feel a faint cameraderie with Bree and Grudge, enough that he'd feel like a rat for bailing out on them. Their paths had crossed several times over the last year and a half, and they'd saved his life in the past.

Maybe it was because he needed to do something honourable, because Trinica had treated him so dishonourably. Maybe it was just the pul of childhood fantasy. Every boy - and many girls - grew up wanting to be a Century Knight. Fighting alongside them came a close second.

Or maybe - and more likely - it was just because Samandra Bree was damned cute and he didn't like the idea of letting her get her face eaten by a Mane.

The horde hadn't expected resistance, perhaps. Certainly not on the scale they faced now. They came through the narrow bottleneck where the cobbled street entered the high-waled square. Over a dozen guns opened up on them, and they were mown down like wheat.

Frey and his men aimed and fired into the thrashing mass of Manes, hoping to hit whatever they could. The Knights, in contrast, were astonishingly accurate.

Whenever Samandra Bree fired one of her twin shotguns, or Mordric Jask his large-calibre pistols, it was a headshot. Colden Grudge's autocannon was less precise, but he made up for it with his sheer destructive power. Each bolt tore through several Manes, smashing through limbs and ribs and skuls. They howled as they were shredded into bloody meat.

But the withering hail of bulets couldn't hold them back for long. One by one the defenders stopped to reload. For the Knights, it was a wel-driled manoeuvre accomplished with impressive speed. For Frey's crew, it was more a matter of fumbling the bulets into their chambers and trying not to drop any.

The Manes took advantage of the lul. They were relentless, leaping over their falen, scrambling and slipping through the tumble of shattered bodies. The defenders couldn't catch them al, and the Manes began to break through the bottleneck and spread into the square.

'Bess!' said Frey. 'Get in there!'

Bess didn't need a second invitation. She thundered forward through the hail of bulets and crashed into the Mane horde. With her arms outstretched, she took up half of the width of the bottleneck. She scooped up the Manes and forced them back with sheer, unstoppable strength. The Manes scratched and bit at her, but it was like attacking a cliff face. With Bess narrowing the gap, the flow of Manes into the square was choked off.

Grissom and Jask turned their attention to those Manes that had made it through. They picked off their targets before they got within five metres of the line. The ghouls twisted and roled to the ground, bearing holes in their foreheads.

Frey took a moment to reload, glancing around at his crew through the acrid haze of gunsmoke. Malvery and Silo were grim-faced. Crake was scared out of his wits. But it was Jez that concerned him. Did she regard the Manes with hatred, or did it pain her to kil them? Did she feel each death, or was she glad of the slaughter? He couldn't say, but he worried for her state of mind.

It was only moments before the flood began to overwhelm Bess. Even though her body blocked them, they clambered over her, or ducked beneath her huge arms. The area around the golem was piled with Mane casualties, but they showed no signs of abandoning their assault. If anything, the deaths of their felows had increased their frenzy.

The dam burst a second time, and this time the weight of numbers was too great to withstand. The Manes poured into the square. The defender's gunfire became unfocused as their targets spread out, and more of them broke through as a result. The balance had tipped. They couldn't be held back.

'Stay together!' Drave shouted, more for the benefit of Frey's crew than the Knights.

The Knights chose their targets with icy precision and took them down. The air was a terrific percussion of rifles, shotguns and pistols, underpinned by the steady report of Grudge's autocannon and the artilery detonations from overhead. There was no use taking cover, since the Manes weren't firing back. This was a game of nerve. Crake had lost his: he was trembling visibly as he fired. Malvery was getting panicky, blasting every which way. But Frey and the others drew strength from the men and women at their side. They aimed and fired steadily, and though the breaking wave of Manes came closer and closer, they were made to pay dearly for every metre they gained.