The Black Lung Captain (55 page)

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 chil. His own hands were freezing and numb, but he stil 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 smal 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.

'Fal back!' he yeled 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, puled it writhing into the air, then grabbed its head in one metal hand and puled 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 totaly as it chased its prey into a side aley.

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 kiled 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 al 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, folowing the major roads. It was uncomfortably open and exposed, but he couldn't risk getting lost. Besides, he suspected that the narrow aleys 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 stil 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.

'Wel,' 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, sweling, multiplying, roling towards them like a tidal wave.

'Run!'
he cried, and they turned tail and folowed 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 wel of vigour al 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 sel 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 dul 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.'

Thirty-Seven

The Battle Over Sakkan — Harkins Is Put Upon —

Emanda - Many Manes - 'Choppin' Time!'

The Navy frigates ploughed on towards the city, shedding fighter craft like glittering shards. Windblades streaked away ahead of the flotila, joining up in formation as they raced to engage the enemy. The dreadnoughts were stil out of range of the frigates' artilery, but that would change in a matter of minutes. The battle was about to begin.

Harkins kept to the edges of the battle zone, palms clammy and mouth dry. The Manes ignored him, as they ignored al the aircraft that were fleeing Sakkan. But Harkins wasn't fleeing. He was waiting for the Windblades to arrive. If he couldn't defend Jez on the ground, he could at least defend her in the air.

The dreadnoughts had risen away from the city streets and were readying themselves to meet the attack. They kept no formation that Harkins could recognise, but there was stil an unmistakable coordination in their movements. They shifted and circled in perfect sync. It was a fluid defensive strategy that kept them moving, kept them separated, and made them difficult targets.

Harkins listened to the Firecrow's engines. He concentrated on the feel of the flight stick in his hand, the reassuring certainty of the instruments on his dash, the press of the seat against his back. It helped steel his nerve. He needed to slow his heartbeat, to fight the tightness in his chest and the sickness in his stomach. To overcome the terror of the battle to come.

Even the smel of the cockpit made him feel safe, the stink of his own sweat and the urine soaked into his trousers. Except that, every now and then, he stil caught the scent of cat musk.

No. Just his imagination. He was al alone. Even the voices of his crew had gone silent. He'd heard gunshots and muffled voices, and a scuffle, and something belowing that was probably Bess. After that, he didn't recognise any of the speakers, except one that he thought might have been that stinking bastard Grist. But wherever the ear-cuffs were now, they weren't with Jez. He could only hope that she hadn't been hurt.

Get out of here,
said the panicked, fluttering voice of cowardice.
She's gone. Probably dead. More dead than usual, I mean. There's no sense joining her.

Just take off.

But that would be the final admission that he was worthless. The humiliations he'd suffered at the paws of the
Ketty Jay's
cat had whittied his pride to a shred, but it was the last shred he had, and he didn't want to let go of it. So he gritted his teeth, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and tried to think brave thoughts.

You can't hurt them anyway,
the voice persisted.
What are you going to do? Your little machine guns against armoured frigates? You won't even
scratch them.

That was true. But Harkins wasn't planning on attacking the dreadnoughts directly. He'd heard stories about the Manes. The dreadnoughts had more than cannons to defend themselves.

As the Windblades approached, the dreadnoughts released their Blackhawks.

They slid from recesses in the flanks of their mothercraft and swooped out into the sky in a dark flock. It chiled Harkins to see them, and he had to withstand another assault on his resolve. They were so damned
unnatural.
Their wings swept far forward, curving to either side of the cockpit. The front end of the cockpits were round windows, through which their hideous pilots could be seen. Their very shape defied the laws of aerodynamics. Aerium engines had long since removed the need for wing lift in aircraft, but it should have been impossible to bank and turn at speed with their wings slanted so far forward, like the tines of a meat-fork.

There was no tail assembly or rudder, only a blunt back end housing a thruster. How did they
steer?

But however they did it, they did it wel. Unlike the dreadnoughts, the Blackhawks flew in threes or sixes, in formations so tight they seemed suicidal. Yet they yawed and dived al together, like birds or bats, as if al the pilots were of exactly the same mind. Their coordination was literaly inhuman.

You really want to fight these?

He realy didn't. But he was going to anyway.

The Windblades' assault had been carefuly timed so that they'd reach the enemy just after the frigates came into range. The effect was shattering. The sky over the city detonated in a terrifying thunder of smoke and flame. Great chains of explosions ripped among the dreadnoughts, sending the Blackhawks wheeling away.

For a few brief moments, the enemy were in disarray, their formations buckled by the force of the fusilade. The Windblades lanced through the artilery haze and opened up with their machine guns.

The first assault was devastating. The sleek Windblades cut into their enemy, guns spitting, ripping through exposed flanks and keels. The Blackhawks tried to evade, but the ferocity of the attack overwhelmed them. Some went plunging earthward, trailing smoke. Others were torn into dirty bals of fire, their wings spinning away through the sky.

But the Windblades dominance was short-lived. The Blackhawks snapped back into formation with unbelievable speed. Shattered groups of fighters merged into units, locking in as if drawn together by magnets. The Manes were on the counter-attack faster than anyone could have predicted. The Windblades found themselves surrounded and under fire in moments.

A second wave of artilery came in, this time aimed at the dreadnoughts. The powerful guns of the dreadnoughts belowed in reply. At this range the shots were speculative, but stil deadly if they hit home.

Harkins shuddered and shook in his cockpit. He was flying high and to starboard of the main body of Mane craft. Below, beyond his port wing, he could see down on to the deck of one of the dreadnoughts. It swarmed with nightmarish figures, leering and strange. Some wore rags, others wore motley, stil others strode among them in outlandish armour. He saw one that was a giant, at least eight feet tal, arms bulging with veined muscles and a neck thick as an ox's. They manned deck guns, ran back and forth with ammunition, or took potshots with rifles as the Windblades flew by. A filthy horde, yowling and shrieking, terrifying in aspect.