The Black Lung Captain

Thirty-Six

Harkins had spent a lot of his life being afraid. He knew fear in its many forms, from the blind panic of a gunfight to the poisonous, chilly unease that he felt whenever he tried to have a conversation with anyone. But this was a different order entirely. This was a crushing, brutal, animal terror that bypassed the conscious mind altogether and sent wild sparks down every nerve. He couldn't move and yet he was desperate to flee. He wanted to crumple into a ball but he couldn't take his eyes off what was happening.

The Manes were coming.

The landing pad was mayhem. Men ran back and forth, yelling oaths, howling at one another to get into their craft, get airborne, get out of here. Tractors were abandoned with cargo still in the trailer. Pilots threw themselves into cockpits and took off without a care for nearby aircraft. Fighters flew overhead, dangerously low. The space above the pad was full of lumbering hulls and speeding wings. A crash was only a matter of time.

Beyond, and all around, the dreadnoughts were descending on Sakkan. They sank out of the maelstrom, through the eerie half-light. Black, ragged iron monsters, a dozen or more. The damned ghosts of a frigate fleet, come from the land of the dead. As they neared the ground, ropes snaked from their decks. The Manes swarmed down them, scampering head-first, hand over hand. They wore human shape, but they were far from human. They dropped to the ground like spiders and were lost from sight.

Jez is one of them? I don't believe it! I won't believe it!

The thought of Jez brought his mind out of a tailspin, enough to pull a coherent thought together. He should run. He should get in the Firecrow and flee while he still had the chance.

But what about Jez? What about his plan to rescue her? What about being brave?

Taking on Grist's gang single-handed would have been easy compared to this. The Manes were dropping all over the city, infesting the streets that lay between him and her. Trying to reach her would be suicide. And then he'd still have to take on Grist's gang singlehanded.

It was too much for his fragile courage. An impossible task. He felt his resolve failing under the weight of the Manes' presence. But even though he couldn't bring himself to go to her rescue, he wouldn't run out on her either. He couldn't do that. He was a coward and he knew it, but there were limits. If he left now, he wouldn't be able to return. The shame would be too much, even for a man who lived his life ashamed.

What could he do, then? What could he do?

Then, as he looked frantically this way and that, he caught sight of something. Aircraft in the distance, heading towards Sakkan instead of away. They came from the east, beneath the black clouds, silhouetted by a low, glowering sun. Frigates, by the size. Maybe ten of them, flying in formation, approaching at top speed. There was only one organisation he knew of that could summon ten frigates and have them fly with that kind of discipline.

The Navy! The Navy is here!

His heart lifted a little. A ray of hope. How had they got here so fast? Well, he wasn't in any mind to complain. The Navy was here. There would be a battle over Sakkan, as well as in the streets.

The realisation spurred him, and he found the strength to move. On the ground, he was worse than useless: a pathetic shell of a man. But in the sky, ah, there he wasn't so meek. Up there, his enemy respected him. And if they didn't, they soon learned to.

He needed the safety of the cockpit. He could seal himself inside. Within the protective canopy of windglass, he was the master of his own small world. There, he had a chance. If he had to stay, if there was to be a fight, then he'd take it to the air.

A siren had begun to sound in the distance, a low, sinister yowl that floated over the rooftops. It was joined by another, from the far side of the city. He ran for the Firecrow, and was halfway up the ladder to the cockpit when there was a shriek of metal from behind and above him. A wave of heat and pressure shoved him in the back. He looked over his shoulder to see two fighter craft spinning towards the ground, trailing flame. A cacophony of screams rose from the far side of the pad. The crashed fighters hit the ground, ploughing through men and aircraft alike, sending up blooming fountains of fire in their wake.

Harkins scrambled into the cockpit, pulled the canopy shut, and activated the aerium engines. He was usually obsessive about pre-flight checks, but not this time. He was desperate to be off the ground, to get up into the freedom above. He flicked the thrusters to ready and grabbed the flight stick.

A moment. Something was amiss. For an instant, he thought he caught a whiff of a familiar scent. The foul musk of that damned cat, that it sprayed all over the Ketty Jay to mark its territory.

Then he looked down into his lap, and realised that his crotch was sodden in a great dark patch.

Ah, he thought. That must be it. He'd been too scared to notice.

The Firecrow sat up on its wheel struts and rose from the ground. Harkins scanned the busy sky above him. A space in the frantic traffic. He lit the thrusters and flew.

'Cap'n! To your left!'

Frey turned just in time to see one of them come lunging out of an alley, right by his shoulder. A flash impression of yellow eyes, a gaping mouth full of rotten teeth, an animal snarl. Terror paralysed him, but not his blade, which moved of its own accord. The cutlass slashed out in a horizontal arc and halved the creature's head. Frey stepped aside instinctively as the Mane's ragged, sinewy body staggered past him. It fell to its knees and tipped to the floor, gore spilling from its skull cavity.

They'd stumbled into a nightmare. The eerie light of the low sun combined with the black ceiling of cloud made everything seem fractured and strange. The dreadnoughts slid overhead, like the shadowed hulls of ships passing above the graves of drowned men. The grim, cold streets of Sakkan were littered with bodies and echoed with distant cries. And here were the Manes. The ghouls of the sky, terror out of legend, sprung suddenly to awful life.

The shout that saved him had been Malvery's. Frey spotted him nearby. The doc was in trouble himself. He and Silo were backing down the street together, shotguns firing. Three Manes were approaching. They ran and leaped in jerky zigzags that made them tricky to hit. Malvery winged one, sending it twisting to the ground. The shock of the bullet would have taken a human out of action, but the Mane sprang back to its feet and came on again.

'Bess!' he yelled. He needed to give orders, take control. He pointed at the enemy. 'Deal with 'em!' Then he aimed with the pistol in his right hand.

Three Manes. One was slow, one was damned fast, and the other one shifted restlessly from place to place like a jumpy kinetoscope he'd seen once in a travelling show. One moment it was there, the next a half-metre to the left, then back again in the blink of an eye. He'd seen Jez flicker the same way, back on the All Our Yesterdays.

He sighted on the slower one: a bulky, muscular monster, skin stretched like parchment over taut muscle, wearing little more than tatters and rags in the arctic chill. His own hands were freezing and numb, but he still squeezed off a shot. Non-lethal wounds didn't seem to slow them, and he knew from experience with Jez that they didn't need a heart. Aim for the head, then.

He did, and he missed.

Bess pounded up the street to cover their retreat. She tackled the Manes fearlessly. The Manes faltered. Presumably, they were accustomed to their enemies being afraid of them; but Bess was afraid of nothing. Frey took another shot at the bulky one, who was too occupied with Bess to evade. The shot wasn't good - his fingers slipped a little as he fired - but he got lucky. There was a small puff of red mist from the Mane's head, and its legs crumpled beneath it.

The two remaining Manes swarmed over Bess. They battered and scratched at her uselessly. She flailed about like a bear who'd disturbed a wasp's nest. The others aimed, but none fired. They couldn't shoot without hitting the golem.

'Fall back!' he yelled at the others. 'Bess can handle them! They can't hurt her!'

They obeyed gladly. Nobody wanted to get into a stand-up fight with the Manes. They just wanted to get back to the Ketty Jay alive. Malvery, Crake and Silo backed off while Frey and Jez covered them.

He cast a quick glance at Jez, who was standing next to him, sighting along a rifle. She'd shaken off the daze that had taken her after she'd activated the sphere, and now she was hard-faced and sharp.

'You okay?' he muttered to her.

'You mean, am I okay with shooting at my own kind?'

'Right.'

One of the Manes, a female with long, tangled hair, jumped off Bess's back, giving up on her. It came running up the street towards them. Jez narrowed her eye and squeezed the trigger. The Mane flickered, shifting left and right so rapidly that seemed it was in three places at once. Jez hit it anyway, dead in the forehead. It spun off its feet and crashed to the cobbles.

'I've picked my side,' she said.

The final Mane was quick, but it couldn't dodge Bess's grasping hands forever. She snagged its ankle, pulled it writhing into the air, then grabbed its head in one metal hand and pulled it off, dragging a length of bloody spine with it.

They headed off in the direction of the landing pad. The sloping, angled streets of Sakkan were in chaos. People ran with no destination in mind. The unnatural fear brought on by the dreadnoughts had turned them into panicking sheep, fleeing the wolves among them. A man bolted screaming across their path, closely pursued by a Mane, which ignored them totally as it chased its prey into a side alley.

They didn't intervene. There was nothing they could do. They had enough on their hands.

I tried to stop this! Frey thought angrily. I tried my best! But now it's every man for himself.

The Manes were up above them, springing from roof to roof. Strange, feral howls drifted over the city, punctuated by gunfire and the shrieks of the unfortunate citizens. Frey's crew were spotted from time to time, but the Manes sought easier prey than an armed gang. They hunted the vulnerable, those who were alone and unarmed. That was how they worked, according to the stories. They took the ones they could, and killed the ones they couldn't. The few who got away lived to spread the stories.

Frey's mouth was dry. Were it not for Bess, they'd have been dead by now. The Manes were coming from all directions, and they weren't like ordinary opponents. They had no weapons but they attacked without fear, running on to their enemies' guns. They were relentless, confident in their speed, able to absorb most wounds with impunity. But Bess was an obstacle they couldn't handle. They hadn't found a way to hurt her yet.

Frey and his crew retraced the route they'd taken to Grist's warehouse, following the major roads. It was uncomfortably open and exposed, but he couldn't risk getting lost. Besides, he suspected that the narrow alleys and side streets were where the Manes liked to catch their prey. At least out here he could see them coming.

Trinica.

He tried to cast her out of his mind, but couldn't. His last sight of her was burned on his memory. That face, those eyes; in the end, she'd given him nothing. No gratitude, no condemnation, no love or hate. A blank. And yet still he felt as if she was disappointed in him. Like he'd committed a betrayal.

I saved her bloody life! he told himself. And yet by doing so, he'd thrown her to the sharks.

She'd done worse to him, it was true. But no matter how strong the argument, he couldn't convince himself. No matter which way he turned it, he didn't seem to win. Even after everything she'd done to him, he felt like he'd abandoned her. And it gnawed at him as they fled.

His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion behind him. They stopped and turned, guns ready. Several dozen people came fleeing out of a cross-street and raced towards them. They sprinted past, eyes wide, flailing and stumbling as they went. The sight of Bess didn't cow them in the slightest: they were already maddened with terror. One woman ran straight into the golem and knocked herself cold. Frey could do nothing but brace himself against the stampede and fend off those who looked like they were about to bowl him over.

In moments, the crazed crowd had passed. The crew looked at one another, rather amazed that nobody had been trampled.

'Well,' said Malvery. 'They were in a hurry for something.'

'What worries me,' Crake said, 'is what they were hurrying away from.'

Frey felt his stomach sink. As the screams of the crowd faded, he could hear howls and shrieks, swelling, multiplying, rolling towards them like a tidal wave.

'Run!' he cried, and they turned tail and followed the departing crowd just as a horde of Manes exploded from the cross-street and came tearing hungrily towards them.

Frey's boots pounded the cobblestones, as fast as he could manage, driven by the fear of what was behind him. The noise of the horde was terrible: their wild baying seemed to be meant for him alone. He was amazed to see Malvery accelerating away ahead of them, arms pumping; the overweight, alcoholic doctor had found a surprising well of vigour all of a sudden.

Panic crept in at the edges of his thoughts. They'd never outrun their pursuit. The Manes were faster, and they wouldn't tire. They'd be caught, and then there would be the teeth and filthy claws and -worse, perhaps - the Invitation.

I don't want to be like them! I'm too damned handsome to be a ghoul!

He'd sell himself dearly, if it came to that. He wouldn't let them take him alive.

The street dipped ahead of them, heading into a sunken square surrounded by towering rows of merchant's offices and banks. Gunfire and the dull thump of an autocannon sounded from within the square. Frey's heart lifted. A squadron of Ducal Militia? Whatever it was, it was hope. At least the militia were liable to be on their side. And they had a big gun.

He poured on the speed and burst into the square just behind Malvery. Scattered Mane corpses lay about, a few citizens among them. The crowd that had passed Frey earlier were scattering in different directions, dividing between the square's various exits. Striding through their midst were five figures Frey recognised.

Samandra Bree, Colden Grudge, Eldrew Grissom, Mordric Jask. And at their head, the bulky, grizzled figure of Kedmund Drave, the Archduke's most feared troubleshooter.

He'd hoped for a squadron of militia. He got five Century Knights. Given the choice, he'd have taken this option any day.

He staggered to a halt in front of Samandra. She tipped her tricorn hat back with the barrel of a shotgun and gave him a dazzling smile.

'How's this, then? You again?'

'Yeah,' he panted. 'It's me.' He stuck a thumb over his shoulder. 'And I brought some friends.'

Samandra looked past him at the squealing horde of Manes piling down the street towards the square. 'So you did.'