Retribution Falls

Thirty-Seven

Pirates and whores ran in panic across the square, heads covered against the thundering concussions and the threat of falling rubble. Their aircraft had been destroyed on the landing pad, cutting off any hope of escape. Now they were helpless witnesses as the Navy pummelled the pirate frigates overhead and fighters wheeled and spat bullets. They fled for what shelter they could and hoped that fate would be merciful.

Frey led his crew down the cargo ramp, cutlass swinging against his leg, pistols raised. The stink of the marsh hit them as they came out into the open air and took up positions around the Ketty Jay. He’d been expecting some resistance from the locals, but he found himself pleasantly disappointed. The freebooters who were passing through the square couldn’t have cared less why they were landing their craft here. As long as they weren’t wearing Navy colours, they could do what they liked. The sight of Bess coming down the ramp deterred any thought of further enquiry.

Frey glanced at the Navy fleet, visible in the distance, a few kloms away. They were spreading out defensively as the pirate craft increased their assault. Half the pirate army’s larger craft were destroyed, but the others were giving as good as they got. Frey saw a Navy frigate slip into a groaning descent, its flanks aflame.

As far as he was concerned, both sides could blow themselves to pieces. He had little love for either. As long as some Navy craft survived to tell the tale and exonerate him, that was fine.

‘Alright, let’s go!’ he cried. Silo closed up the cargo ramp and they hurried towards their target with the Murthian covering their backs.

There was a barricade surrounding Orkmund’s squat, grey stronghold. The watchtowers surmounting the mass of crossed girders and spikes were empty, but the gate was still closed. It was an enormous slab of metal on rollers, heavy enough to need three men to move it and presumably secured on the other side.

‘Bess! Open that gate!’ Frey called.

The golem stamped past him. She dug her massive fingers into the metal and wrenched. The gate shrieked in protest as a bolt on the inside resisted, but Bess’s strength was inexorable, and it slowly gave way.

Frey could see one or two men who had stopped at the edge of the square and were staring. Clearly, they were puzzled to see several men who looked like pirates breaking in to the pirate captain’s stronghold. Malvery raised his shotgun and sighted at one of them; Silo took aim at the other.

‘Keep moving, lads. This doesn’t concern you.’

They decided that it didn’t concern them after all. There was a loud snap of metal and the gate rolled out of the way with a screech.

‘Nice work, Bess,’ said Frey. Crake patted her on the arm as they sallied inside.

Orkmund’s stronghold wasn’t large—certainly not the size of somewhere like Mortengrace—but it was secure. The grey, mould-streaked walls were thick, and the windows were small and deeply set. Too small to climb through.

Once inside the barricade they were faced with a squat, three-storey building with two projecting wings on either side, making a three-sided square. The entrance was set between the wings, at the far end of the square.

Frey led them to the nearest wall, at the tip of one of the wings. He pressed himself against it and looked around the corner. He was sweating with the tension. At any moment he expected to be shot at by an unseen foe or obliterated by a shell from above. But the stronghold was quiet, and the sounds of destruction had retreated temporarily into the distance.

‘I don’t see anyone, Cap’n,’ Malvery said at his shoulder.

Frey didn’t like the idea of rushing up to the entrance. There were too many windows facing inward on either side. Anyone up there with a gun could pick off attackers with ease.

‘We’ll make our own way in,’ he said. He turned to Bess. Her eyes glimmered behind her face-grille. ‘Can you get through this wall?’

Bess could.

There was a pirate standing in the doorway of the room on the other side. The sight of the hulking figure crashing through the wall in a cloud of dust and rubble scared him witless. As with anything that scared him, his first reaction was to shoot it. Bess pushed her way through the debris as bullets ricocheted from her armoured torso. She tore a chunk of stone from the wall and flung it at her attacker. It hit him in the forehead hard enough to take his head off. The remains of the pirate staggered a few steps before tipping over.

‘Damn good shot!’ Malvery exclaimed, climbing through the hole in the wall.

Frey climbed in after him. ‘Our treasure’s in this building somewhere, ’ he said. ‘Let’s get looking.’

Pinn yowled and whooped like an over-excited monkey as he dodged between swaying trails of tracer fire. The Skylance screamed happily along with him, obedient to his every command, banking and rolling through the chaos of a packed sky. Pinn was fling the fight of his life and the Skylance was in the best shape she’d ever been, with her tanks full of the finest prothane and aerium, courtesy of the Coalition Navy. Together, nothing could touch them.

It was almost too easy. The pirates never saw him coming. Their eyes were all on the Navy Windblades; they considered Pinn’s Skylance as one of their own. The last thing they expected was a fellow pirate to turn against them. Those few seconds of confusion were usually all it took.

He glanced down at the ferrotype of Lisinda that swung on a chain from his dash, and grinned fiercely. ‘You should see me now!’ he cried. ‘Sweetness, you should see me now!’

This was what his world might have been like, day after day, if only those Sammies hadn’t pulled out of the Second Aerium War just as he was about to join in. This was living.

His machine guns rattled as he drew a line of puncture-marks across the flank of a pirate corvette. He darted away before anyone could see who had done it. The corvette—a medium-sized attack craft with two sets of wings and a fearsome battery of guns—was too busy dealing with Windblades to pay him any mind.

‘Pinn!’ Harkins squealed in his ear, at a pitch high enough to make him wince. ‘Pinn, where are you? There’s three of them on me!’

Pinn scanned the melee frantically, but he could find no sign of Harkins amid the swooping tangle of fighters that surrounded him. Belatedly he remembered that Frey had instructed them to look out for each other. The object was survival, not kill-count.

‘I can’t see you!’

‘Pinn! Bloody help me!’ Harkins yelled.

‘I can’t help you if I can’t see you!’ Pinn yelled back. Then, in a rare and remarkable moment, he had an idea. ‘Climb up! Climb out of the pack! I’ll find you up there!’

He pulled the Skylance into a steep climb, making his way free of the main mass of combat. The higher they got, the fewer aircraft would be in their way to complicate things.

‘Pinn! They’re right on my tail!’

‘I’m coming, you noisy chickenshit! Hold on!’

He spotted the approach of tracers from his port side and rolled the Skylance a moment before a blast of machine-gun fire ripped past the belly of the craft. A quick glance told him that it had come from a Windblade.

‘I’m on your side!’ he yelled. He could feel a strange tiredness settling into his bones, and remembered the daemonic earpiece. Every whoop and comment he made was sucking a little more energy out of him, and now he’d begun to notice it. He nearly cursed, but at the last moment remembered to keep his mouth shut.

The Windblade had realised its mistake, and was peeling away to search for fresh targets. Pinn craned around in his seat to look for Harkins, and spotted him a klom away, shooting skyward at an angle close to vertical. Three aircraft chased him, sending weaving lines of tracer fire ahead of them.

Pinn hit the throttle and the Skylance responded. He streaked across the dull sky, the battle beneath him and the mists above, his eyes fixed on the steadily ascending quartet of aircraft. Harkins was jinking and twisting as best he could, but the sheer volume of gunfire made it unlikely he could evade them long enough to make it to cover.

Pinn found himself in the grip of an unfamiliar sensation. He was worried. As much as he scorned Harkins, he didn’t want to be without him. Harkins was just about the only person on the crew he could push around.

You better not get shot down, you stuttering old lunatic.

Smoke began to pour from the Firecrow’s wing.

‘I’m hit! I’m hit!’ Harkins screeched.

Pinn thumbed his trigger and his machine guns clattered, tearing through the foremost of Harkins’ pursuers. The aircraft exploded in mid-air, sending chunks of itself flying away. The others were too close to avoid the debris: a slab of wing, spinning end over end, whipped through the air and into the cockpit of another pirate, smashing him out of the sky. The third aircraft went into evasive manoeuvres immediately, searching for the author of the surprise attack, and then decided that the chase wasn’t worth it and plunged back down towards the main mass of the fighting.

Pinn whooped and slapped the side of the cockpit, then scooped up the ferrotype of Lisinda and gave her a kiss. ‘Harkins!’ he called. ‘How bad is it?’

Harkins levelled out and then banked experimentally. He looked wobbly, but the smoke had stopped.

‘I . . . er . . . I lost one of my thrusters . . . had to shut it down. Not good, really, then.’

Pinn looked regretfully at the combat going on below them. ‘We’re done here. You’re not gonna last another skirmish. Let’s go help out the Cap’n.’ He matched Harkins’ turn and fell into position behind him.

‘Hey, Pinn? Hey?’

‘What?’

There was a pause. ‘Um . . . thanks.’

Pinn smiled to himself. ‘Didn’t I tell you to clam it?’ he said.

‘Where’s the treasure kept?’ Malvery demanded. The pirate’s reply was incoherent, mouthed as it was around the barrel of a shotgun.

‘Take the gun out?’ Crake suggested.

Malvery withdrew the shotgun a little way. The pirate—still shocked at being collared by the bulky doctor—bent over and gagged. By the time he’d recovered, there was sullen defiance in his glare.

‘The treasure. Where?’ Malvery demanded again.

The pirate suggested some anatomically improbable places where Malvery could shove his mother. Malvery broke his nose with the butt of the shotgun, then looked around at his companions and shrugged. ‘That’s me out of ideas,’ he said.

Silo and Jez were covering either end of the corridor. The stronghold was mostly deserted—the pirates had evidently fled—but Frey was taking no chances. The pounding of the guns outside seemed worryingly close now, echoing through the empty spaces, bouncing off the unadorned walls. Dust shook from the ceiling, bringing new cracks.

‘We haven’t got time for this,’ he muttered. He seized the pirate, who was holding his bloodied nose, and pointed at Crake.

‘This is my friend Grayther Crake. He’s got quite a remarkable smile. Why don’t you show him, Crake?’

Crake grinned. The pirate stared at him for a moment. His gore-streaked hands came away from his face, the pain of his nose forgotten, and he craned forward in admiration.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘That’s a nice tooth.’

Half a minute later, they were on their way, newly furnished with directions. Malvery had insisted on clubbing the pirate once more for that crack about his mother, but afterwards they let him go, minus his pistols and several molars.

They hurried through the corridors, keyed up to face resistance at any moment, but they found few people to stand against them. One man ignored them completely, presumably running for the exit. Another took a pot-shot at Bess and was gunned down for his trouble.

A particularly heavy concussion shook the building and sent plate-sized flakes of plaster raining from the ceiling. Frey stumbled to his knees, and Silo caught his arm as he fell. As he was helped to his feet, he met the Murthian’s eyes. Both of them were thinking the same thing. They should get out of here now, while they still had the Ketty Jay and their lives.

Just this last thing, Frey told himself, shakily. Our luck’ll hold.

Silo saw the resolve in Frey’s gaze and gave him the tiniest of nods, then reached out one long-fingered hand and squeezed his shoulder in reassurance.

Frey found himself suddenly grateful for the constant presence of the engineer in his life. Though Frey rarely even noticed him, he was always there, a silent strength, working invisibly behind the scenes to keep the Ketty Jay running. Frey realised how important Silo had been to him all these years, a friend who asked for nothing but who would offer unquestioning support whenever it was needed. Silo had saved his life after the ambush in Sammie territory, and been with him through all the bitterness that followed. Frey had never wanted a confidante; he wanted someone who he felt would never betray him, no matter what. That was Silo.

Driven by an absurd and overwhelming urge, he hugged his engineer. Silo stiffened in surprise.

‘Rot and damnation, Cap’n, this isn’t exactly the time!’ Malvery cried.

Frey withdrew, his face colouring. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You’re right.’

A few more turns brought them to the vault. It was exactly where the pirate had told them it would be. Unfortunately, it was where most of his friends were, too.

The vault door was standing open as they arrived, and a dozen pirates were busy carrying out chests full of treasure. Orkmund himself was there too, directing his men. He was more physically imposing in person than he’d been from a distance: muscular and tattooed, with a bald head and a boxer’s face.

Frey had wanted to get the drop on them, but with Bess in tow it was impossible. By the time they’d rounded the corner, the men were alerted. Only the puzzling nature of the metallic clanks and leathery creaks had stopped them pulling out their guns. But now the golem stepped into sight, with Frey and his crew behind her. Some of the men went white and backed away, dropping their end of the chests. Others let their burden fall and drew guns. But Frey’s crew had their guns out already, and at the first sign of violence they started shooting.

The first volley cut down half of Orkmund’s men, most of them with their revolvers still half out of their holsters. The crew of the Ketty Jay ducked around the corner as the answering fire came, but it was mostly directed at Bess, who went stamping up the corridor, roaring as she did so. Those who hadn’t been killed in the initial volley stumbled backwards in the face of the metal giant, tripping over the chests, and scrambled to their feet to flee. Frey could hear Orkmund shouting something incoherent at them, urging them to stand and fight; but then there was a terrific explosion from above, and the calamitous sound of falling stone.

Dust billowed out of the corridor and engulfed his crew where they hid. Frey coughed into his fist and looked around the corner. It took some seconds for the dust to clear, but when it did he saw Bess standing there, dirty but unharmed. A section of the ceiling had caved in, burying all but one of the chests. Of Orkmund and his men, there was nothing to be seen. They’d either fled or been buried. Frey didn’t care which.

What he did care about was the red-lacquered chest that lay near Bess’s feet. A chest with a beautiful branch-and-leaf intaglio on the lid and a clasp in the shape of a silver wolf’s head. He ran to it and tugged at the lid. Locked. Stepping back, he blasted the clasp away with his revolver.

There would be no mistakes. He had to be sure.

The others had gathered around him as he knelt down and threw open the chest. Inside was a golden mass of ducats. Thousands upon thousands of coins. Even in the dust-hazed air, it seemed to him that they glimmered.

Bess leaned in over his shoulder to look. She cooed as she saw the wealth within.

Frey could hardly breathe. He had it at last. They had it at last. After all the years of scrabbling in the dirt, they were rich.

He stepped back, and looked at the joyous faces of his crew, transfixed by the sight of more money than they’d ever dreamed of.

‘Bess, pick that up,’ he said. ‘We’re getting out of here.’