Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [30]
He threw himself away from the sink with a snort of disgust.
Self-pity doesn’t suit you, Frey. No one likes a whiner.
Still, he had to admit, it had been a pretty bad decade and his thirties had gotten off to an unpromising start. Waiting for his luck to change had worn his patience thin, and trying to change it himself invariably ended in disaster.
Look on the bright side, he thought. At least you’re free.
Yes, there was that. No boss to work for, no Coalition Navy breathing down his neck. No woman tying him down. Well, not in the metaphorical sense, anyway. Some of his conquests had been more sexually adventurous than others.
But, damn, this time … this time he really thought he had a chance. The sheer disappointment had shaken him badly.
It could have been different, though. Maybe if you’d taken a different path ten years ago. Maybe you’d have been happy. You’d certainly have been rich.
No. No regrets. He wouldn’t waste his life on regrets.
The captain’s quarters were cramped, although they were still the biggest on the craft. He didn’t keep them particularly clean. The metal walls were coated in a faint patina of grime, and the floor was filthy with boot prints. His bunk took up most of the space, beneath a string hammock of luggage that threatened to snap and bury him in the night. A desk, drawers, and cabinets were affixed to the opposite wall, with catches in the drawers and doors to prevent them from opening during flight. In the corner was his mirror and washbasin. Sometimes he used the washbasin as a toilet in the night, rather than climb two levels down to use the head. There were advantages to being male.
He got up and opened a drawer. Inside, atop a mess of papers and notebooks, sat a tiny bottle of clear liquid. He took it and returned to the bunk.
Might as well, he thought sadly.
He unscrewed the stopper, which also functioned as a pipette. He squeezed the bulb and drew in a little liquid, tipped his head back, and administered one drop to each eye. Blinking, he lay back on the bed.
Drowsy relief billowed over his senses. The aches in his joints faded away, to be replaced by a warm, cloudy sensation that erased his cares and smoothed his brow. His eyes flickered shut, and he drifted on the cusp of sleep for a long while before succumbing.
He dreamed that night of a young woman with long blond hair and a smile so perfect it made his heart glow like burning embers. But when he woke the next morning, he remembered none of it.
Chapter Eight
TAVERN BANTER—CRAKE VISITS AN OLD FRIEND—THE SANCTUM—AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE
ld One-Eye’s tavern was a swelter of heat and smoke, pungent with sweat and meat and beer. The gas lamps were muted by the fug that hung in the air. Stoves, lit to keep the chill of dusk away, made the room stifling. The din of conversation was such that people had to shout to be heard, raising the volume ever further. Waitresses passed between the crude wooden tables, expertly avoiding the attentions of rough-eyed men with ready hands.
Buried amid the standing crowd, Frey held court at a table littered with pewter flagons. He was just finishing a tale about his early days working for Dracken Industries as a cargo hauler. The story concerned an employee’s senile mother, who had somehow gotten to the controls of an unattended tractor and drove it into a pile of caged chickens. The punch line was delivered with enough panache to make Pinn spew beer from his nose, which had Malvery laughing so hard he retched. Crake observed the scene with a polite smile. Harkins looked nervously at the people standing nearby, clearly wishing he was anywhere but here. The gangly pilot had been cajoled along on this expedition by Malvery, who thought it would do him good to get out among people. Harkins hated the idea but had agreed anyway, to avoid the slightest risk of giving offense by refusal.
Jez and Silo were absent. Jez didn’t drink alcohol and kept to herself; Silo