The Black Lung Captain

Thirty-One

The Delirium Trigger hung at anchor over the docks, between the frozen land and the ice-blue sky. She floated silently on aerium ballast, linked to the ground by thick chains. Fresh welding scars and burn marks marred her skin, tokens of her battle with the Storm Dog. The patch-up job hadn't been pretty, but that was the price of speed.

Frey and Trinica stood by a wooden railing on a hillside path that overlooked the Yort settlement of Iktak. Here the path bulged outward, perhaps intended as a rest point, a place for carts to pass, or even a convenient spot to take in the view. Frey couldn't imagine it was the latter. There was little to view in Iktak, just a depressing, industrial knot of pipes and factories and grimy snow that never quite thawed. That, and the bleak tundra beyond, an empty expanse broken by streaks of shrubbery in toxic colours.

Frey had stood in this exact spot when he'd said his goodbyes to Crake, a month ago. Back then the Delirium Trigger had been going in for repairs. Now, it seemed they were all but completed.

A place for partings, then, he thought. For there was another one coming, and he'd feel this one even more keenly than the last.

After they left Endurance, a hasty conference in the cockpit had determined their next move. Fly to Iktak, collect the Delirium Trigger, and then move on Grist's hideout in full force. Trinica was confident that her craft would be ready. She knew the workshop and said it was the best in the North. She'd offered them enough to make sure her craft was repaired within a month. It appeared her trust hadn't been misplaced.

'It'll take a day, at least,' she said. 'Maybe two. Break in the new crewmen. Trial flight. Fire the guns. All of that.' She pulled her fur-and-hide coat closer around her shoulders. 'I won't take them into battle untested. Not against Grist.'

'Fair enough. He hasn't made a move this past month. Whatever he's waiting for, what's another day or two? Better to be ready, right?'

'Indeed.'

'I've a trip of my own planned, anyway.'

'Oh yes?'

'I had a talk with my crew.'

She turned towards him slightly. Black birds flapped through the air overhead, croaking. 'About what?'

'About everything. Grist, you. About why I was dragging them all over everywhere.'

'You told them about us?'

'Not everything. Enough.'

'How did they take it?'

'Well, after they'd picked themselves off the floor, I think they were glad to know. It explains a lot for them, I suppose.'

Trinica laid a gloved hand on his arm and gave him a wan smile. Frey felt his throat tighten suddenly and his eyes began to prickle. The moment of affection, this lightest of contacts, had caught him by surprise. He looked away and stared intently into the middle distance, forcing back the threat of tears.

Blood and dust, Frey! Hold it together! You're supposed to be a man!

'They wanted to try and get Crake back,' he said. 'I said yes. Least I could do. Jez thinks she might be able to talk to him. She knows what's eating him up.'

'What about Pinn?'

'Pinn's gone,' said Frey, a touch of regret creeping into his voice. He couldn't help feeling that it was mostly his fault they'd lost their best pilot. 'If he ever told anyone where he came from, they don't remember. Don't have the first clue where to look for him. If he wants to come back, he'll have to find us. But somehow I doubt the lad's got the brains for it.'

'Will you replace him, then?'

'I don't know,' he said. 'I suppose I'll have to, eventually. Won't be the same, though.' He scratched the back of his neck. 'You know, there's a little part of me that's gonna miss that fat, stupid moron.'

He studied the Delirium Trigger. A shuttlecraft was departing from the Iktak docks and heading up towards it. Perhaps it was carrying engineers, still applying finishing touches to the delicate mechanisms inside. Maybe, once all the major work was done, they'd moved it out of the hangar to make space for another craft.

Thinking about things like that stopped him thinking about other things.

'It's a good idea,' said Trinica. 'About Crake.' She sounded weary and unenthusiastic, but then she always did when she was depressed.

Frey rolled his shoulders. 'We could do with getting Bess back if we need to do any fighting on the ground. Nobody can kick your head off like Bess can.'

'Come on. It's not about Bess. You miss Crake, too. Admit it.'

Frey poked at the frozen ground with the toe of his boot. 'Yeah,' he said. 'A lot more than Pinn, anyway.' He looked over at her. 'You won't go after Grist while I'm gone?'

'I'll wait for you, Darian,' she said. But, tired as she seemed, she didn't say it with much conviction. Frey wanted more assurance than that.

'Trinica,' he said. He made her face him. He wanted her to know it was serious. 'I can trust you, can't I? Because if you turned on me again . . .' He trailed off, not knowing how to end it.

'You can trust me,' she said, more firmly this time.

Frey was satisfied with that. They stood together in silence for a time, watching the activity in the docks below. Aircraft taking off, engineers tinkering with engines, foremen directing the moving of heavy equipment.

'All this will be different, you know,' she said at length.

He knew what she meant. She meant the feeling between them. She meant herself. After this, she'd return to the Ketty Jay. She'd don her black outfit and chop at the hair that had grown during their time together. She'd put on her white make-up and her garish lipstick and those contact lenses that made her eyes monstrous. She'd become the pirate queen once more.

'It doesn't have to happen that way,' he said awkwardly.

'Yes it does. I can't be here with you and there with them. There's no weakness allowed in that world.'

He turned to her, swept his hand down to indicate her, head to foot. 'This . . .' He fought for the words. 'This isn't weakness. When you put on all that shit and turn into the queen bitch of the skies, that's weakness.'

She nodded faintly. 'Perhaps you're right,' she said. 'But I live in a world where men judge me by my appearance. If I came to them as I am now, they'd see a woman. Trinica Dracken - Captain Trinica Dracken - needs to be more than that.'

Frey felt a surge of frustration. Why did she need to be so obtuse? How could she agree with him and still refuse to see what he wanted from her?

This past month, he'd hardly given a thought to that hollow sense of worthlessness that had settled on him. In fact, it had stopped bothering him completely. Perhaps it was because, in trying to catch Grist and prevent a disaster, he'd been doing something vaguely noble and selfless for a change. Or perhaps it was because he'd been doing it with Trinica at his side.

But now change was coming, and he was afraid. He'd got used to having her around. He didn't want that to end.

Suddenly, he wanted to do something to stop her. It couldn't finish this way, with a weak and bitter goodbye. Once she was gone, once she was back with her crew, then all this would fade from her mind. He didn't want her to forget him. That would be the worst thing imaginable. Even if she came to hate him, he couldn't bear to be forgotten.

He slipped off his gloves, and pulled off the silver ring around his little finger. Then he held it out to her in his palm.

'Oh, Darian, please,' she said. 'Your ring? Isn't my word good enough for you? You want to keep track of me too?'

It wasn't quite the response he was expecting. 'I just . . .' he said, but as usual the words crowded up in his mouth and nothing much came out. 'I want you to have it.'

She looked at him oddly. 'Why?'

'Next time you're thinking of robbing me blind, I want you to look at this and remember . . . how good we were together.'

It had started out as a half-hearted attempt at levity, but that only made the finale more pathetic. Frey could feel himself turning red. Damn it, why were unfelt emotions so easy to express, when the real ones tied his tongue?

She didn't laugh. Her face was solemn, and she had a fragile look about her. 'Alright,' she said quietly. She slipped off her glove and held out her left hand.

He took it carefully. Handling her as if she was porcelain. Her skin was cold and dry. 'Maybe I can find you again, after all this is done,' he said.

'That might not be a good idea,' she replied.

'Never stopped me before,' he replied. Bravado made him feel a little less nervous.

He slipped the ring on to her little finger. Her fingers were smaller than his, and it didn't fit.

'It's kind of big, Darian,' she observed gently.

He tried the next finger, and it slid on perfectly and stayed there.

Her gaze flickered upward, met his, and held it a long time.

There was nothing in his head. A wilderness of thought, blasted white by the moment. There was only her, the planes and curves of her face, the intelligence behind those eyes. As long as those eyes stayed on him, everything would remain as it was, beautiful as frost. Her hand still lay in his, but now it was warm: thawed by his touch, perhaps.

All he wanted was that she'd never stop looking at him.

But then she drew back, and her gaze fell. She took her hand away from his, and put it back inside its glove. 'I must go,' she said. 'Goodbye, Captain Frey. I'll see you on your return.'

She walked away from him, back towards the Ketty Jay, not meeting his eye. He looked out over the docks and listened to her boots crunch on the snow until he could hear them no more.

He walked around for slow hours before he went back to the Ketty Jay. He wanted to give her time: time to change herself, time to leave. It was only after they were airborne and on their way back to Tarlock Cove that he realised the hollow ache, which had been absent all month, had returned.

Pinn woke with an explosive snort to find that everything was sideways.

It took him several seconds to locate himself and work out which way up the world was meant to be. The smell of tobacco smoke, grog and sweat hung in the air. A badly tuned piano plinked and clunked in the background. He heard laughter, snarls and curses.

He was lying face-down on the bar, one chubby jowl spread out under him like a cushion. His chin was wet with drool and spilled beer.

His head felt heavier than usual as he lifted it. It lolled this way and that, too weighty for his neck to support. He got it under control with some effort and blinked the crust out of his eyes.

'You look a little the worse for wear, sir,' beamed the bartender, 'if you don't mind me saying.'

Pinn did mind, but he didn't have the energy to do anything about it. He decided he needed a drink instead. He had a vague memory of putting some coins on the bar in front of him, ready to buy his next drinks. His last two coins in the world. He'd been staring at them glumly at some point before he passed out. Now they were gone. He couldn't even remember what he'd spent them on.

'Stand me a round, friend?' he mumbled, more in hope than expectation.

The bartender, a tall mustachioed man with an annoyingly lively character, just grinned ever wider. 'No need, no need! Hold still just a minute.' He leaned over the bar and peeled the missing coins off Pinn's face. 'There you go. That should cover it! A rum and a beer, was it?'

'Right,' said Pinn. The bartender busied himself with the drinks.

Pinn wiped his chops with his sleeve and gazed blearily into the mirror behind the bar. Something resembling a bewildered mole stared back. The little thatch of hair atop his head had been crushed into an unflattering slope. He licked his palm and tried to do something about it. When he couldn't work up enough saliva, he dipped his hand in a nearby beer spill and used that.

The bartender put the drinks down in front of him. 'Forgive the observation, sir, but you've got about you the air of a man who doesn't quite know where he is. Am I right?'

Pinn looked around the bar again. 'Yeah. Where am I?'

'The Grog Hatch, sir. Finest tavern in town.'

Pinn thought for a moment. 'And what town is that, then?'

The bartender was impressed. 'You are a free spirit, sir. Well then, I have the pleasure of informing you that you find yourself in the fine port of Kingspire. Home of the best spitted divehawk in Vardia. I urge you to try it, if you haven't already. Might I ask what brings you to this place?'

The bartender's conversation was making Pinn's head hurt. 'I was going somewhere . . .' he mumbled. 'My sweetheart's getting married.'

'Oh, how terrible! And you, sir, are racing to prevent it?'

'I was,' he said. 'Dunno how I ended up here.'

'Perhaps you were inclined to a have a drink to steel your nerve?' suggested the bartender, who'd begun cleaning glasses.

'Yeah.'

'And after several drinks . . . Why, a man alone in a place like this, he has needs, doesn't he? Needs a woman can't understand. Perhaps you took a fancy to one of the local doxies?'

'More than one,' Pinn grunted. He swigged his rum to clear the taste of previous rums out of his mouth.

'You must possess a surfeit of manly desire, sir.'

Pinn wasn't sure what that meant, but he liked the sound of it so he agreed. 'Damn right.'

'Perhaps you gambled a little, too?'

'Got to do a bit of gambling after you've done a whore,' said Pinn. 'That's the time to hit the tables. A man thinks best when his pods are empty. '

'And, if I may venture to extrapolate from your recent attempt to solicit refreshments, perhaps you've been here several days, spent all the money you have and now find yourself stranded, without a shillie to your name, and many kloms still to go to your sweetheart?'

'That's it,' said Pinn. 'Exactly.'

The bartender sighed dramatically. 'You have my sympathy, sir. Fortune is cruel to romantics.'

Pinn raised his mug of rum to that. This bartender was one wordy son of a bitch, but he was wise. He understood. You couldn't blame a man for cutting loose once in a while.

It had been a hard month, after all. Worrying about Lisinda, trying to work out what he should do. Suffering that bitch Dracken for the Cap'n's sake. Even after she peeled off the ghoul mask and it turned out she was hot underneath, he still hated her. Not enough that he'd have said no, but you didn't have to like a woman to sleep with them. It was simply a matter of letting the pressure off. A man had to let the pressure off every so often. Otherwise, he was apt to do all kinds of stupid things. That was just nature.

So the first thing Pinn did when he got out on his own was to let the pressure off. There was nobody giving him orders, nobody to stop him. nobody to make him drink coffee and sober up. It took him two days to spend all the money he had in the world.

It w as only now, in the cold light of impending poverty, that he remembered why he'd stopped at Kingspire in the first place. In his haste to reach Lisinda he'd been pushing the afterburners hard, and they'd eaten up all his fuel. He was running on fumes when he touched down in Kingspire and. unless some kind of miracle had occurred in the meantime, that was still the case.

The bartender was right It was like the world was conspiring against him. Trying to thwart his attempts to reach his sweetheart. If there really was an Allsoul, it certainly seemed to have a grudge against Pinn.

Miserably, he assembled a roll-up. He considered offering one to the bartender - it would be good to befriend him, since Pinn would be tapping him up for drinks later - but his tobacco was low and he wanted it for himself. He was just licking the paper when someone eased on to the bar stool next to him, arriving in a wave of strong perfume.

'Got one of those for me, stranger?' she asked.

She was plump, heavily rouged, and showing a terrifying amount of cleavage. Red hair spilled in curls over a mole-pocked expanse of white flesh. One of her front teeth slightly overlapped the other. She was at least twenty years older than him, but she dressed like a woman half her age.

He handed over his roll-up, as if in a daze, and lit it for her with a match. She took a drag and smiled at him. It might have been the booze, but Pinn thought she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

'Strange and mysterious, the paths our hearts take us,' said the bartender sagely. But nobody was listening to him, so he drifted off to the other side of the bar, where there was another drunken soul in need of a sympathetic ear.