The Black Lung Captain

Eighteen

The rooms and corridors of the Ketty Jay were the domain of the lumbering, strange-smelling entities that Slag deigned to share his aircraft with. He suffered their presence when it suited him, but usually he avoided them, preferring to remain in his own kingdom, the maze of vents and pipes and maintenance crawlways that ran behind the walls of the aircraft. He was the terror of the rats and mice that bred there, and he ruled with a red claw.

Tonight, he had bigger prey in mind.

The room was in darkness. On the top bunk, the fat one was snoring hard enough to inhale his blankets. Below him, the scrawny one lay quite still, breathing deep and slow.

Slag watched them lazily from the vent high up on the wall, his paws crossed before him. Sometimes there was a barrier here, a grille that prevented him getting through, but not this time. That was good. The rats had been hiding too well lately. He was bored, and in the mood to torment his plaything.

He'd been watching for some time now. Usually he wouldn't trouble to be so careful, but something was amiss. He sensed it, even if he didn't know what it was.

Perhaps it was the odd behaviour of the scrawny one that was perturbing him.

Slag had got used to bullying Harkins. He sensed the fear coming off him, and fear meant weakness. Slag hated weakness, and was determined to punish it wherever he found it. But Harkins had been acting differently of late. Poking round the cargo hold with that metal beast clanking along behind him. Creeping through the Ketty Jay with a net.

Slag was supposed to be the hunter, not the hunted. This prey seemed to have got confused about his role. It was Slag's job to remind him.

Slag slipped warily out of the vent on to the top of a storage cupboard. From there, he dropped down on to an iron-bound trunk, and then to the floor. He sniffed the air suspiciously. His instincts still insisted that things weren't quite right, but he didn't understand why. There was no danger from the snoring fat one, with whom he shared a mutual disdain. Harkins was asleep and helpless. Everything looked normal enough.

Maybe it was because his prey wasn't twitching and muttering as much as he usually did. But his eyes were closed, and his breathing deep, so Slag hopped up on to the bed.

Some of these odd beings slept heavily. Not like a cat at all. Slag could thump about the room as much as he liked and nobody would notice him. But it still took technique to clamber on to a face without waking its owner. Slag was massive, old and scarred from a thousand fights, but despite his hefty frame he was a master of the art of stealth.

He slipped along the bunk towards Harkins' head. He could smell the stale breath of his enemy, feel the air brushing past his sensitive whiskers. He slowed, examined the terrain, picked out the best method of approach. When he was ready, he made his move.

Suddenly the ground surged underneath him. As if the bed itself had snapped shut like a set of jaws. He tensed to bolt, but a white sack enveloped him first, tangling his paws and blinding him. He thrashed, but he couldn't get a proper grip to run, and he felt himself lifted into the air. He tumbled on to his back, upside down, helpless, constrained. He hissed and spat and writhed in fury, but the sack had him trapped.

'Ha!' Harkins cried. 'Ha! Thought I was asleep, didn't you! Well, I fooled you!'

It was a gabble of meaningless sounds to Slag. He was shaken all about in his awful white prison. He twisted and turned, trying to right himself. Nobody did this to him! Nobody! Least of all that filthy fearful prey-thing!

'How do you like that, eh? I'll show you!'

'Will you shut your damn meat-hole?' moaned Pinn, who'd been awakened by the commotion.

'I got him! I got the cat!'

'Great,' said Pinn irritably. 'Throw it in a river or something. Scabby little bag of stink.'

'Throw it in the river? That's a good idea, Pinn! A good idea!'

'Happy to help. Now bugger off.'

Slag's flailing had got one of his claws hooked into the fabric of the sack. He struggled to free his paw, but instead succeeded in using it as an anchor to twist himself round into an upright position at the bottom of the sack. Now with his paws beneath him, he tugged. The fabric tore, but his paw remained trapped by a loop of stubborn thread. He pulled again, and this time a longer tear appeared.

'Erm,' said Harkins.

There was a creaking of bedsprings. Pinn rolling over to look down on the scene. 'I hope you didn't think your pillowcase was going to hold a cat that size, did you?'

Slag's claw pulled free, but he'd sighted freedom and attacked the rent, slashing and shredding. The scrawny one squealed, and the sack suddenly, terrifyingly, plunged downward as it was released. Slag hit the floor in a heap, but now at least he'd found the ground, and it would take more than a fall like that to hurt him. With the sack settling around him, he oriented himself, picked himself up and thrashed his way out of the neck of the pillowcase.

'Uh-oh,' said Pinn gleefully. 'He's mad now.'

Harkins was struggling with the door, trying to slide it open. The fear was coming off him now, that familiar smell. Harkins was many times his size, but Slag would have attacked anything at this point, even the oily monster that lived in the hold. He was berserk with rage.

His whole life, he'd been top of the food chain. He'd had vicious fights with enormous rats, but he'd never been beaten and never backed down. And he'd certainly never been manhandled in such a way. What had been done to him was too much to bear. It demanded bloody revenge.

He launched himself at Harkins' calf and sank his claws through his trousers. Harkins squealed in agony, swatting at him, but Slag clambered up his legs, arse and back, his claws cutting through cloth and hooking into flesh. Harkins was desperately trying to reach behind himself as he stumbled through the open door. His arms occupied with the cat, he tripped and went head-first into the metal wall of the corridor beyond. Slag jumped free as his victim crumpled to the floor, wailing and clutching his head. Pinn was helpless with laughter in his bunk.

Harkins tried to scramble away, but Slag wasn't about to let him. This wasn't finished until his prey was no longer moving. He sprang at Harkins' face. Harkins got his hands up in time to protect his eyes, but Slag sank yellow fangs into his fingers instead.

Harkins screamed, scrambling to his feet, desperately trying to shake off the cat. Slag was having none of that. He hung from Harkins' hand by his teeth, scrabbling for purchase with his claws. Harkins trilled an operatic wail, eyes wide as he stared in horror at the black, furry mass attached to him. Then his hand clamped around Slag's belly and tore him away, along with a chunk of finger. Slag found himself lobbed down the corridor towards the engine room, the taste of blood in his mouth. A seasoned warrior, he flipped in the air, landed on his feet, and charged back for more.

Harkins was running away down the corridor, his wounded hand clutched to his chest. Just then the female, Jez, stepped out of her quarters, holding a pistol.

'Harkins! Hey, are you alright?'

Harkins let out an incoherent blubber of terror and pushed past her, heading for the cargo stairs. Slag skidded to a halt. The female was standing between him and his prey. He hated this one. She made him afraid. The mere sight of her was enough to get his hackles up. She was wrong. Not natural. Unknown.

'Will you quit tormenting him?' she snapped at Slag. Slag just hissed at her. After a moment, she shrugged and went back into her quarters. 'I give up. I've got my own problems.'

As soon as the door to her quarters was shut, Slag raced down into the cargo hold. Harkins had reached the lever that activated the ramp. As Slag came thumping down the steps, he pulled it. Hydraulics whined as the ramp began to open. Harkins looked over his shoulder and saw the cat approaching.

'Stay away from me!' Harkins shrieked, pressing himself up against the bulkhead of the Ketty Jay as if he could melt through it. 'Get . . . just get away!'

He bolted for the gap that was opening at the end of the cargo ramp. Slag ran to intercept, but at the last moment Harkins threw himself down and rolled sideways, slipping out through the gap. There was a short squeal and a heavy thump as he hit the ground.

Slag went to the edge of the ramp and looked down. Harkins was getting painfully to his feet a couple of metres below, staggering away across the grass. He went a short distance, stopped, and turned back.

The ramp bumped on to the ground. Beyond was tarmac. Slag sniffed it distrustfully, then recoiled a step. He glared at Harkins.

'Ah!' Harkins gloated, bloody but defiant. 'Can't come out, can you? Think you're so special! Try and get me out here on the landing pad!'

Slag didn't understand the words, but something in Harkins' manner told him he was being taunted. He didn't like that one bit.

He peered out from the cargo ramp. Beyond it, everything was unfamiliar. The hard comfort of grimy metal and oil was replaced with strange textures and smells. Air so fresh that it felt like it was barely there at all. Frightening shapes loomed in the brighdy lit darkness, big things with wings and fat bodies, like colossal metal flies. Behind them were sinister dwellings, their windows glowing.

Overhead, Slag could see the night sky to either side of the Ketty Jay's tail assembly. It was black and speckled with strange lights. Something told him that there wasn't any roof up there. What kept the lights from falling down?

The world outside was too big, too overwhelming. But still, there was his enemy, his punishment incomplete. He was dancing around and pulling faces now.

Slag focused all his concentration on Harkins. The way he did when he stalked rats. The world didn't exist. There was only him, and his prey.

He took a step forward. And another. His paw touched the tarmac.

Harkins yelped, turned tail and ran as fast as his legs could carry him, away into the night.

Slag left the paw where it was until Harkins was out of sight, then drew it back. He sat on his haunches and began to groom himself, one eye on the landing pad. A satisfactory encounter, all in all. His dominance had been asserted. No need to venture out there, not when he was master of his own domain. What he had was quite enough.

Pleased, he settled down to guard the entrance. Let that scrawny one try and come back tonight. Slag would show him what a real predator could do.

'Get up.'

Crake surfaced into awareness, found it unbearably terrible, and sank back towards sleep again.

'Crake! Get up!'

Someone shook him. His eyes fluttered open. A dark bedroom, plush and unfamiliar. Frey stood next to him, hand on his shoulder. Dawn light crept in through the curtains.

His face felt swollen and greasy with night sweats. His lips were sticky and the corner of his mouth was caked with something foul. He felt like he'd been shat whole from the dirty arse of some pestilent herd animal.

'Please go away, Cap'n,' he croaked. 'If I'm not unconscious in thirty seconds I may very well die. I mean it.'

'Get dressed,' said Frey. 'We're getting out of here.'

Crake lifted himself up on his elbows and turned his head with some difficulty. The bones in his neck had apparently rusted together in the night. Frey was dressed, clad in his familiar grubby garb, pistols and cutlass stuffed through his belt.

'You're not serious?' Crake pleaded.

Frey checked his pocket watch. 'Jez is bringing the Ketty Jay to meet us at four o'clock on the edge of the estate.'

'When did you arrange that?'

'A week ago, when I came back to see you lot. Thought I might want to make a quick exit after the soiree. Turns out I do.'

Crake sat up, rubbing his aching neck. 'If you put half as much effort into planning your robberies as you do sneaking away from your lovers, we'd all be rich by now.'

Frey didn't have the patience to discuss it. 'Look, Crake, it's almost four. If you don't get moving, I'll leave you behind. You can explain my absence to Amalicia.'

'No thanks!' Crake said, suddenly finding his motivation. He hauled himself out of bed and began pulling his clothes on over his undergarments, pausing only to prevent himself from being sick.

Frey glanced around uneasily. 'Hurry up, will you? I don't think my pods could survive the kicking if she catches me running out on her.'

'I must say, Cap'n, this doesn't rank amongst the most spectacularly brave things you've done.'

'I'm just not big on histrionics,' he explained. 'Don't like to see a woman cry.'

'But you're okay with making them cry?'

'Hey, I don't make anyone do anything. They choose to cry. Can't help it if they think I'm something I'm not.'

'You really are quite a shit, aren't you?'

'Why? Because I cut out the unpleasant stuff? One day she'll thank me for not dragging this out.'

'Oh, you're doing this for her? Very noble. I should have realised.' He pulled on his boots. 'I'm ready.'

They headed out of the bedroom and into the cool, shadowy corridors of the manse. The house was silent, the servants asleep. Crake did his best to creep along behind Frey, but his hangover and lack of sleep made him feel like his head was underwater. He had the unpleasant sensation that nothing was quite real. His brain and his body had become estranged and were only cooperating by a gentleman's agreement.

They sneaked downstairs to the entrance hall, beneath the disapproving gaze of the portraits that hung above the staircase. The hall seemed cavernous in the early morning quiet. The tiny tapping of their boots created echoes.

They'd reached the front door when they heard the unmistakable click of a pistol hammer being primed.

'Stop there.'

Amalicia stepped out from a curtained alcove. She was wearing a long nightgown, and was barefoot. A revolver was in her hand, trained on Frey. Her expression was dark.

'Ah,' said Frey. 'Listen, I know how this looks, but—'

'Don't,' she snapped. She crossed the space between them, never taking the gun from him. It trembled in her hand. 'I knew you'd be coming this way when I woke up and you weren't in bed,' she said. 'Leaving without a word. Isn't that your style?'

'Put the gun down, hmm?' Frey said nervously.

'So you can run off again?' she asked. 'I don't think so.'

'If you're trying to stop him running off, shooting him probably isn't the best way to do it,' Crake pointed out, in what he hoped was a reasonable manner.

Amalicia thought about that for a moment, then shifted her aim towards Crake. 'You're right,' she said. 'I'll shoot you instead.'

Crake dearly wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

'Amalicia, come on,' said Frey, holding up his hands as if placating a wild animal. 'Let's talk about this.'

She shook her head, her lip quivering and tears in her eyes. Dangerously close to hysteria. 'No more lies, Darian.' She tossed her hair and composed herself. 'It's become clear to me that you aren't in your right mind.'

'I'm not in my right mind? Who's got the gun?'

'I know there's something in you that makes you run away. I offer you all this, all my riches, and you still want to go back to your flea-bitten, raggedy life. But I understand, Darian. You can't help it. You're scared. Scared of love.'

'Scared,' said Frey flatly. 'Of love.'

'Cap'n . . .' Crake warned. He rather hoped Frey wasn't thinking of getting confrontational while there was a pistol pointed at his chest.

'I know it's frightening,' Amalicia said, suddenly sympathetic. 'It's scary to open your heart to another. To leave yourself vulnerable, to let others in. It's alright to admit it, Darian.'

Frey just looked embarrassed. 'Really, you've got this all wrong.'

'Of course you deny it! You don't even see it yourself. My poor orphan, I won't desert you.'

'What does my being an orphan have to do with any of this?' Frey cried.

She gave him a pitying gaze, moist with compassion. 'You don't know what's best for you, my love. So you're going to stay here. I'll show you there's nothing to be scared of.'

'You're kidnapping me?' Frey said, aghast.

'For your own good.'

Frey took a steadying breath and tried a new tack. 'Listen,' he said. 'Let me tell you what I learned at the party last night. This sphere -the sphere that will make me rich, remember - they're moving it by air to another location. This evening, at dusk. It'll be under heavy guard, but with the Storm Dog on our side, we can take it. We know the route and we'll set an ambush. It's our best and only chance.' He checked his pocket watch again. ' That's why we're sneaking off. I didn't want to worry you. As soon as we're done, I'll be straight back. I promise.'

'Is that true?' Amalicia asked Crake. He nodded frantically. All except the last part, anyway.

She evidently didn't believe him. 'Oh, Darian,' she said, with an indulgent tut. 'You will use every trick in the book, won't you? But you don't fool me. You're staying here.'

Frey gave a little scream of frustration. 'I can't stay here,' he said 'This is too important!'

'More important than love?'

'Yes!' he replied, without an instant's pause.

'You see?' said Amalicia. 'You're not thinking clearly. You're scared. Who in their right mind would take money over love?'

'Oh, for shit's sake,' Frey said, exasperated. He pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at her head. 'Just drop the damn gun.'

Amalicia went white and stared at him in surprise. Then an uncertain smile spread across her lips. 'You wouldn't shoot me,' she said.

'I'm a pirate, Amalicia. You think I haven't shot women in cold blood before?'

Crake hadn't thought so until now, but suddenly he wasn't sure. Amalicia was even more worried by the suggestion. She hadn't seen this side of Frey. The hard, uncaring, brutal side. She didn't move, perhaps expecting him to drop the act at any moment. But Frey's expression was like stone.

He cocked his pistol. 'Gun down, Amalicia. This isn't a game. That's a member of my crew you're threatening. I'm not asking a third time.'

Amalicia's eyes welled with tears at the tone of his voice. An expression of shock settled on her face as she realised he was serious. She looked like a child stunned by an undeserved reprimand.

'Darian,' she whispered. 'You couldn't.'

He closed one eye and sighted down the barrel towards her forehead.

She looked from one man to the other, and then she lowered her weapon. Crake breathed a low, whistling sigh of relief and took the gun from her hand. She slumped to the floor, her legs gone weak.

'How could you do this?' she asked, head hung. 'I love you.'

Frey shoved his pistol back in his belt. 'I never asked you to.' He walked to the front door, pulled it open, and went out into the dawn light. Crake cast one last, apologetic look at Amalicia and followed him.

'You don't know how to love, Darian Frey!' she shrieked after them, as they hurried down the drive towards their rendezvous. 'You don't know how to love!'