Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [15]
So he climbed up the ladder from the mess to the passageway that linked the cockpit at the fore of the craft to engineering in the aft. In between were several rooms that the crew used as quarters, their sliding doors stained with ancient, oily marks. Electric lights cast a dim glow on the grimy metal walls.
He thought about going up to the cockpit to have a look at the sky, but he couldn’t face Frey right now. He considered going to his quarters, perhaps to read, but that was unappealing too. Finally he remembered that their new recruit had managed to get herself shot, and he decided it would be the decent thing to go and inquire after her health. With that in mind, he walked down the passageway to Malvery’s infirmary.
The door was open when he got there, and Malvery had his feet up, a mug of rum in his hands. It was a tiny, squalid, and unsanitary chamber. The furniture comprised little more than a cheap dresser bolted to the wall, a washbasin, a pair of wooden chairs, and a surgical table. The dresser was probably intended for plates and cutlery, but it had found new employment in the display of all manner of unpleasant-looking surgical instruments. They were all highly polished—the only clean things in the room—and they looked as if they’d never been used.
Malvery hauled his feet off the chair where they were resting and shoved it toward Crake. Then he poured a stiff measure of rum into another mug that sat on the dresser. Crake obligingly sat down and took the proffered mug.
“Where’s the new girl?” Crake asked.
“Up in the cockpit. Navigating.”
“Didn’t she just get shot?”
“You wouldn’t think so, the way she’s acting,” Malvery said. “Damnedest thing. When she finally let me have a look at her, the bleeding had already stopped. Bullet went right through, like she said.” He beamed. “All I had to do was swab it up with some antiseptic and slap on a patch. Then she got up and told me she had a job to do.”
“You were right; she is tough.”
“I ain’t seen many patients shrug off a bullet wound like that,” Malvery agreed.
Crake took a swig of rum. It was delightfully rough stuff, muscling its way to his brain, where it set to work demolishing his finer mental functions.
Malvery adjusted his round green-tinted glasses and harrumphed. “Out with it, then.”
Crake drained his mug and held it out for a refill. He thought for a moment. There was no way to express the shock, the betrayal, the resentment he felt, not in a way that Malvery would truly understand. So he simply said, “I almost died today.”
He told Malvery what had happened after he and Frey were captured. It was an effort to keep everything factual and objective, but he did his best. Clarity was important. Emotional outbursts went against his nature.
When Crake had finished, Malvery poured himself another shot and said, “Well.”
Crake found his comment somewhat unsatisfying. When it became clear the doctor wasn’t going to elaborate, he said, “He let Macarde spin the barrel, put it to my forehead, and pull the trigger. Twice!”
“You were lucky. Head wounds like that can be nasty.”
“Do you think he was lying? I mean, how could he know which chamber the bullet was in?”
Malvery shrugged. “I ain’t the Cap’n. No telling what he can and can’t do.”
“But you know him better than I do. Would he really have let Macarde pull the trigger if he wasn’t sure?”
“I’ve known him longer than you have,” Malvery said. “Wouldn’t say I know him much better, though. Not enough to speak for the man.” He tipped his mug at his companion and hunkered forward in his chair. “I like you, Crake. You’re a good one. But you gotta realize this ain’t your world you’re living in anymore.”
“You don’t know a thing about my world!” Crake protested.
“Don’t think so?” He swept out a hand to indicate the room. “Time was I wouldn’t set foot in a place like this. I used to be Guild-approved. Worked in Thesk. Earned more in a month than this little operation makes in a year.”
Crake eyed him uncertainly, trying to imagine this enormous, battered