The Black Lung Captain

Eleven

Frey ran through the antechamber, towards the room where the metal sphere rested on its pedestal. Grist, Crattle and Hodd were coming the other way, faces underlit by their lanterns.

'We heard shots . . .' Crattle began.

'The lookouts,' Frey said. 'Trouble outside.' He pushed past them, into the room where Crake was working. Tuning rods were arranged all around the sphere, linked by cables to the resonator. Crake was squatting in front of it, scribbling down readings in a notebook.

'Tell me that wasn't gunfire,' he murmured.

'Get moving. We need to get back to the others.'

'I'm not leaving my equipment!' Crake protested. 'There's no way I could afford to—'

'Alright! Gather it up! I'll send Silo down to help you.'

On cue, Silo appeared in the doorway. 'Cap'n.'

Frey was wrongfooted by Silo's unusually fine sense of timing. 'Erm . . . Help Crake,' he said.

'Cap'n,' replied Silo, brandishing the packs they'd brought the equipment in. Crake began frantically disconnecting everything. Grist loomed into the already crowded room.

'Is that thing safe or not?' he demanded, pointing at the sphere.

'I don't know!' Crake said. 'I haven't had time! It takes tests, procedures, careful study—'

Grist reached past him and snatched up the sphere.

'However,' Crake continued, 'a reckless disregard for one's own life will do just as well.'

There was another volley of gunshots from outside, snapping through the silent, empty dreadnought.

'Pack up your junk and catch us up!' Frey snapped at Crake. He ran out of the room, with Grist and Crattle hard on his heels. Grist had the sphere under his arm, which Frey wasn't happy about, but now wasn't the time for arguments. He'd make damned sure he didn't let the captain out of his sight, though.

They found Jez sitting by the doorway, a distant look in her eyes. Shell-shocked. Frey didn't have time to wonder what was wrong with her. He hauled her up. 'On your feet, Jez. You alright to shoot a gun?'

She shook herself and focused on him. Her face firmed. 'Yes, Cap'n.'

'Come on, then.'

They backtracked through the dreadnought. The gunfire intensified as they approached the breach where they'd entered. Finally they saw daylight ahead. There, crouching among their abandoned packs in the cover of a bulkhead, was Tarworth. He was using the rifle that had been his crutch to fire out into the undergrowth. Frey reached him first. Tarworth looked up, and his eyes were afraid, but he said nothing.

Frey peered out around the ragged edge of the rip in the dreadnought's hull. Beyond was the forest, steeped in weak daylight. It was alive with movement. Leaves rustled. Half-glimpsed figures rushed this way and that. A few dozen metres ahead of him, he could see the ridge they'd clambered down to get to the floor of the defile. That was their only way out, as far as he knew. The other three sides were sheer.

The undergrowth heaved and Pinn and Malvery burst out of it. They raced towards him, firing wildly over their shoulders and yelling. A spear followed them and buried itself in the ground centimetres from the doctor's foot.

'This way!' Frey cried. He drew Gimble's revolvers and fired covering shots into the undergrowth, aiming at nothing.

'Where do you think we're bloody running to?' Malvery howled back.

They bundled in through the breach and flung themselves into cover, just as Jez, Grist and the others caught up with Frey.

'Where's Ucke?' Grist demanded of his crewman.

'He was out there,' Tarworth said. 'I don't—'

'He's done for,' Malvery panted. 'They got us by surprise. He was the first one. Didn't stand a chance.'

They clustered on either side of the breach, looking out, seeking targets. It wasn't easy. They never stayed visible for long.

'There!' Jez cried.

Frey caught a brief sight of one of their attackers as it loped through the undergrowth. It looked almost like a man, but it must have been seven feet tall, thickly built and covered in black, shaggy hair. It wore beads and was wearing some kind of crude armour, made of hide or leather. In one hand it carried a carved wooden club, decorated with painted symbols and bands of colour; in the other was a spear.

'The beast-men of Kurg,' Hodd breathed, rather unnecessarily.

'Thanks, Hodd,' Frey replied sarcastically, reloading his revolvers. 'I wasn't sure for a minute there.'

'We saw some smaller ones,' said Malvery. 'Ugly little things. Red fur instead of brown.'

'Those,' sniffed Hodd, with a disdainful look at Frey, 'are the females.'

'Those are the native women?' Pinn cried, with the unique anguish of someone whose dreams have just been violently shattered. 'What happened to the sex-crazed tribes of warrior women?'

'Oh, they're rumoured to live in the northern tundra,' said Hodd. 'Actually, there's quite an interesting story I once heard—'

'Will you two shut it?' Frey cried. 'I'm trying to think of a way out of this!'

'Think hard, Cap'n. They've cut us off,' Jez muttered. She took a potshot at something moving in the undergrowth. 'We're trapped in the defile. More of 'em moving up all the time.'

'Where?'

'Over there.' She pointed out into the forest. There was a meaty impact, and she pulled her hand back with an arrow sticking through the palm. Frey stared at her.

'Ow,' she murmured. She went faint, staggered back and sat down heavily. Malvery went to attend to her just as Silo and Crake came running up the passageway, their packs loaded with Crake's gear.

'What's going on?' Crake demanded of the group in general.

'Beast-men!' said Hodd. 'They appear to have the advantage over us.'

'Can't you do something, Crake?' Pinn asked. 'You're a daemonist, aren't you? Make them die or something. Shoot fireballs!'

'Daemonism. you bloody dullard, is a science and an art!' Crake declared indignantly. 'I'm not some two-bit stage magician. If you want to make them dead, use your gun. It's what it's there for.'

Fat lot of good you are, then,' Pinn muttered.

Frey shook his head in exasperation. Pinn never failed to get a rise out of Crake, even when he was in his blackest humours. He was pleased that his crew were just about capable of working together as a unit nowadays; he just wished they could do it without all the bitching and bickering. But then, he supposed, they wouldn't be his crew.

'Malvery?' he called. 'How's Jez?'

'She's okay, Cap'n. Won't be playing the piano for a while, though. Now grit your teeth, Jez, that arrow's gotta come out.'

'Why does it have to come ouaaaaaAAARRGH!!^’

'There, now. That wasn't so bad.'

Jez was still whimpering as Malvery applied the bandages. Grist hunkered up next to Frey. 'We can't let 'em shut us in,' he said. 'If we don't move now, there'll be too many of 'em.'

'There's probably already too many of them.'

'Well, then there'll be even more,' said Grist. 'We can't stay here. Might be this breach is the only way in and out of this dreadnought, but might be there are others. We don't know 'em, but maybe the beast-men do. They could get in behind us.'

Frey chewed his lip. 'You're talking about a death-or-glory break for freedom, aren't you?'

'Might be I am.'

'I hate those.'

'Done many?'

'Not lately.'

'Don't worry.' Grist laid a heavy hand on Frey's shoulder. 'I've done a few. They always work out.'

'Well, 'course they do,' said Frey. 'If they hadn't, you wouldn't be here to talk about it.'

Grist chewed over the logic of that. 'You want to live for ever or somethin'?'

'I told you. Yes.'

'Sirs,' said Hodd, breaking into their debate. 'Might I make a suggestion?'

'What is it?' Frey asked impatiently. But he lost all interest in a response the moment he saw a shaggy figure running up the passageway behind Hodd, a spear raised in its hand.

He reacted instinctively, lunging towards Hodd and shoving him out of the way, aiming with his other hand. He squeezed the trigger too late to stop the beast-man releasing the spear, but he saw it coming and pulled his shoulder back just in time to avoid being impaled. The spear flew past them all and clattered harmlessly down the passageway. The beast-man staggered, dropped to one knee, and keeled over.

Lucky shot, thought Frey. Lucky dodge. Lucky all round, really.

Hodd was staring at him with awe. 'You saved my—'

'Yeah, yeah. Anyone see any more coming?' He ducked as an arrow from outside flew in through the breach and bounced off the metal wall.

'Can't see any right now,' Malvery replied.

'I hear them,' said Jez. She'd taken on that trance-like, distant look that she got more and more lately. Or it might just have been the shock of getting an arrow pulled out of her hand. 'A dozen or so. They're inside the craft.'

Frey turned to Grist, and saw the captain staring intently at Jez, a frown on his face. 'She's got good ears,' he said quickly. 'Seems like you were right. There is another way in. We can't stay here.'

Grist stuck a fresh cigar in his mouth and lit it with a match. 'Death or glory, then?'

Frey sighed. 'I suppose so.'

They spilled from the breach in a disorganised mass, guns pointing everywhere, firing randomly and shouting insults. The rainforest hid their assailants. Arrows thumped into the ground at their feet or hissed through the air, coming from nowhere. They ran headlong towards the enemy, racing for the low ridge which was the only way out of the trap. It was just visible through the trees, a craggy wall three or four times the height of a man. They'd have to climb it, while those bloody beast-men were doing their level best to kill them.

Frey was terrified. Full-frontal assaults were among his least favourite ways to spend a day.

Two revolvers, he thought. Five chambers each. That's ten bullets. One of them is in that hairy bastard back in the dreadnought. That leaves nine.

Something moved at the periphery of his vision. He saw a red-furred creature squatting on a tree branch overhead, aiming a bow down at them. It was flat-faced and heavy-browed, with hardly any nose to speak of. It wore a tangle of bone jewellery and a crudely patterned smock. He shot it and it flew backwards off the branch, the arrow going wide.

Eight.

'Hey!'

He glanced over his shoulder. The cry had come from Tarworth, the crewman Pinn had shot in the leg. He was limping after them with his rifle as a crutch, but he was unable to keep up. Frey didn't have the slightest intention of slowing down for him, but he thought Grist and Crattle might have spared a moment to consider their crewman. Apparently not. That wasn't how it worked under Grist's command.

'Hey, wait for me!' Tarworth called, fear giving his voice a touch of hysteria. Two arrows hit him, almost simultaneously. One in the chest, one in the eye. His crutch slipped under him and he went down in a clumsy tumble.

Frey looked away. No time to give a damn. Men died all the time. His concern was protecting his own.

The beast-men came out of the foliage, rushing in with their carved wooden clubs, ready to crack skulls. Frey was crushed amid a chaotic melee. Shotguns roared at close range. Hot blood spattered his face. He saw Silo, pistol in one hand, machete in the other. He swung and split the jaw of a beast-man. Malvery fired wildly and blew off one of their assailant's legs at the knee.

Suddenly the group of defenders surged and Frey found himself out on the edge. One of the creatures was coming at him, a thing out of nightmare, a monstrous pile of muscle, lips skinned back, yellowed teeth like tombstones. Nobody to hide behind now. Frey stuck out both revolvers and fired. The savage crumpled, but its momentum carried it forward into him, knocking him to the ground. He struggled frantically under its weight, its rank stink filling his nostrils. Feet stamped all around, threatening to trample him. With a huge effort, he shoved the dead thing aside, scooped up his revolvers and got to his feet.

Six bullets left.

'Come on, you ugly sons of whores!' Grist cried, sphere tucked under one arm, revolver levelled. Crake was stuffing bullets into the drum of his own weapon, having no doubt wasted the previous five. The daemonist's lack of accuracy was legendary. An arrow whisked past Frey's head and thumped, quivering, into a tree trunk. He ducked, long after it would have done any good.

Seconds passed, and no new attack. A break in the assault. Frey took the initiative before any more arrows came.

'Get going! To the ridge!'

That spurred them. They ran onwards. The beast-men rustied and moved with them, always staying out of sight. Impossible to tell their numbers. Ten? Fifty? Frey saw Malvery empty his shotgun into the foliage in a cloud of shredded leaves and blood.

What have I got us into? Frey thought, not for the first time.

'They're coming up behind us!' Crattle yelled. He was pointing to where the hull of the dreadnought rose over them, partially obscured by the trees. Beast-men were shambling out of the breach. Some of them had taken up the chase, others were investigating the abandoned packs piled at the entrance. Only Silo and Crake were encumbered now, carrying the daemonist's equipment; the rest had left their gear behind in favour of speed.

Frey pushed on towards the rock wall that was their only way out. A red-furred female popped up on top of it, pointing a bow down at them. Even the smaller females were almost two metres tall. They were breastiess, and only differed outwardly from the males in the colour of their fur and their slighter build. It snarled and aimed, feral intelligence glittering in its small eyes.

There was a volley of gunshots from behind Frey. The beast-woman jerked and keeled over, arrow tangling in her fingers, unfired.

'Cover me!' Frey cried. 'I'm going up!'

He thrust his pistols into his belt and began to climb. It was only halfway up that he began to consider what in damnation he was doing. There were plenty of other people who could have gone up first. Why did he volunteer?

A rush of blood to the head. Swept up in the moment. The kind of stupid bravery that got people killed. But it was too late to back out now.

He got his arms over the top of the ridge and pulled his head and shoulders up. Two beast-men were running along the ridge towards him, clubs in their hands. Faced with a leg-breaking drop if he let go, he chose to go on, straining to lift himself over the edge. If he could get his feet under him in time, if he could get a revolver out—

There was a crackle of gunfire below him. One of the beast-men tumbled. The other came on, unhurt. Frey was still scrambling desperately on to the ridge when the beast-man reached him. He got his knee over and rolled aside just as the club smashed into the ground, centimetres from his head.

He sprang to his feet, but the beast-man was quick. With its other hand, it snatched him up by the throat, lifting him off the ground with effortless strength. Frey choked as rough fingers cut off his air. He kicked uselessly, one hand clawing at the beast-man's hairy wrist. The savage raised its club, ready to smash his skull like an egg.

Two gunshots. The beast-man's face changed from fury to puzzlement. A disturbingly human expression. Then the fingers around Frey's neck loosened, and the beast-man fell. Frey staggered back, one hand going to his throat, the other still holding the revolver he'd pulled from his belt.

Four.

His companions had started climbing up from below, one by one, while the rest held off the beast-men. Frey hid behind a tree near the lip of the ridge. He scanned the undergrowth, ready to defend his position until reinforcements could arrive. He rather hoped that the three savages who lay dead nearby would be all he had to deal with, but, as usual, he was disappointed. A thrashing of leaves warned him as two more males came running out of the forest, bare feet pounding the ground, beads and hide armour flapping around them.

Frey was ready for them this time. He calmly aimed and shot one of them in the head.

Three bullets left.

He shifted his aim to the other, sighted, and pulled the trigger again.

The revolver clicked as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

There was a moment of cold realisation as the flaw in Frey's maths revealed itself. He had ten bullets in two revolvers, but he hadn't been firing them equally. He'd been favouring the one in his right hand. And now it was out of bullets.

He raised the gun in his left hand but the beast-man was too close. It swung its club down at him. He half-dodged at the last moment and caught a glancing blow on his outstretched forearm, hard enough to numb his hand. His revolver fired uselessly into the ground - two left -and dropped from his nerveless fingers.

The beast-man was startled by the noise of the revolver, long enough for Frey to back off a few paces. He sized up his options. The pistol in his right hand was empty, and he needed that hand free so he could draw his cutlass. But it seemed a shame to waste a good weapon, so he flipped it into the air, caught it neatly by the barrel, and sent it spinning towards his attacker. It cracked the beast-man hard on the forehead and flew away into the undergrowth. The beast-man staggered backwards, lost its footing, and plunged off the lip of the ridge.

'Oy!' cried Malvery from below. 'Don't send 'em down to us! We've got enough of our own!' His complaint was followed by a gunshot as he executed the bewildered beast-man somewhere out of sight.

Frey drew his cutlass as another beast-man came growling into sight. It lunged at him, and he let the blade draw his arm into a parry. The blow from the club came hard, jolting his arm. Another blow came, and another. Frey blocked them, but each time his block was weaker. Even with the strength of the sword to aid him, the beast-man's raw power was overwhelming. It attacked in a frenzy, battering at Frey's guard. He tried a counter-thrust, but only opened himself up to a swing that he just barely evaded. Teeth gritted, sweating, he backed off under the fierce rain of blows.

I can't hold it off! he. thought, panicking. I can't . . .

There was a tremendous boom to his left, and a gory hole was punched through the beast-man's chest, flinging it away. Frey looked over his shoulder and saw Grist clambering awkwardly over the lip of the ridge, lever-action shotgun in one hand, sphere tucked into his elbow, cigar still clamped firmly in his mouth. Frey was astounded that he'd managed to climb at all, carrying all that. Grist picked up the pistol Frey had dropped and held it out to him.

'You owe me one, Cap'n Frey,' he said.

There was a sharp hiss as an arrow slipped through the undergrowth. Frey heard it, swung his arm, and the cutlass did the rest. He cut the shaft in half an instant before it reached Grist's chest, then spun on his heel and flung his cutlass like a spear into the undergrowth. There was an animal shriek, and a beast-woman staggered out into the open, the cutlass buried in its chest. Blood soaked through the coarse fibres of its smock, and it toppled to the earth.

'Not any more,' said Frey, taking the pistol.

Grist gaped, staring down at the halves of the arrow that had bounced harmlessly off his coat. 'How . . . ?'

'It's all in the wrist,' he said. He hurried over to the fallen beast-woman, planted his foot on its shoulder and wrenched the bloody cutlass free with his left hand. He was getting the feeling back in his arm and fingers now. They hurt like buggery, but at least they still worked. He thought about looking for the other pistol, but it was lost in the undergrowth and he didn't fancy seaching for it while surrounded by murderous savages. No great loss, anyway: he was a bad shot with his left hand.

Others were clambering up on to the ridge. Jez, Crattle, Pinn. They took positions on the edge and covered Crake, Hodd, Malvery and Silo as they climbed up after. Frey and Grist watched the forest warily. All had gone suspiciously quiet. They could still hear the beast-men rustling about, but no more arrows were loosed, and no more attacks came.

'You think they've given up?' Frey asked. He popped the drum of his remaining revolver and slid in fresh bullets.

Grist's eyes were grim beneath his bushy brows. 'Might be they're smart enough to know when they've bit off more than they can chew.'

'Let's hope so,' he said, snapping the drum shut. Behind him, Malvery was struggling on to the ridge. The last of them. 'We all here?' he asked.

'All here, Cap'n,' Jez replied, wiping sweaty hair away from her face with an expression of vague amazement. 'Somehow.'

'Mr Hodd!' Frey called. 'Point us in the right direction. Let's get moving before these beast-men decide to have another go at us.'

'That way,' Hodd said, thrusting out a finger without hesitation.

'Right,' said Frey. 'Eyes peeled, weapons ready. Reload if you need to. And if you see anything with more than fifty per cent body hair, shoot it!'