The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [140]
He snatched up his earcuff and clipped it on. “Pinn!” he said. “Pinn, what happened?” But the only reply was Harkins’s incoherent gibber. The sudden noise had turned him to jelly.
“Calm down, Harkins!” Frey snapped. “What happened? Did you see? Where’s Pinn?”
“He … ah … uuhhh … I …”
Useless. Frey turned around in his seat. Malvery was just picking himself up off the floor. “What just happened?”
“Afterburners,” said Jez. “Pinn hit his afterburners and flew off. You know that craft is rigged for speed.”
“Hit them by accident?”
“I don’t think so, Cap’n.”
“But he doesn’t know how to get where we’re going!”
There was silence for a moment. Realization dawned on Frey. “He’s not coming, is he?”
“I don’t … I don’t reckon he is,” said Malvery. The doctor was ashen-faced. Perhaps, like Frey, the thought that Pinn would ever leave them was beyond his comprehension. Pinn was too dim and unambitious, and, besides, he had nowhere else to go.
They’d misjudged him. The young pilot could take any amount of abuse and mockery and laugh it off with good humor, but the news from his sweetheart had finally proved too much.
No, Frey thought to himself. It’s not that, and you know it. It’s Trinica. It’s because you brought Trinica on board. You knew he hated her, and you ignored him.
Frey turned back to the controls, stony-faced. His good mood had withered and died. “Give me a heading, Jez. I’m taking us up.”
“But what about Pinn?” Harkins wailed in his ear.
“Pinn’s gone, Harkins,” said Frey. “Forget him.”
A QUIET LANDING—WORRYING EVIDENCE—AN URCHIN—OLDREW SPRINE
arly morning, and the town of Endurance lurked beneath an anvil-gray sky. Powdery snow sifted down from the clouds, swirling in flurries, dusting the ground.
It was a mean, bare place, crammed into a fold in the mountains, surrounded by hard horizons of dark rock. Simple square buildings crowded in tight, huddled against the bitter northeastern winds. A short way distant was a mine shaft: the reason for the town’s existence. Gargantuan machinery—pumps and elevators and drills—surrounded the entrance. Railway tracks led in and out. Mine carts sat idle. A road led along the mountainside to a refinery at the edge of town. It was a black sprawling mass of pipes and chimneys, squat and low, a malevolent presence overlooking the drab, slumped houses and joyless streets.
The landing pad was all but deserted, and nobody was around to guide the Ketty Jay in. Frey eyed the settlement as he descended. No sign of life. No activity at the mine. The refinery was dormant: no smoke came from its chimneys.
“It’s quiet,” he muttered. He left a dramatic pause and then said, “T—”
“Too quiet?” Jez suggested.
“That was my line,” Frey said, miffed. He’d always wanted a chance to say it.
“Sorry, Cap’n,” said Jez. Judging by her grin, she wasn’t.
He returned his attention to the town below. He didn’t like this. Not at all.
“Wake up Malvery, will you?” he said. “And Silo. Tell them to bring shotguns.”
“What about Captain Dracken?”
He thought about that for a moment. “Her too,” he said. He wasn’t sure how useful she’d be, but she’d never agree to stay behind. “You’ll stay here, with Harkins. Keep in touch with the earcuffs. I’ve a feeling we might need a quick getaway, and I’ll need you to fly the Ketty Jay if we do.”
“Cap’n.” She made to leave, but Frey stopped her.
“Wait. Before you go, tell me what you think of those.” He pointed down at the landing pad, where three very unusual aircraft sat.
“The two on the far side are a Keeley Skywave and a Modderich Grace,” she said. “Serious luxury craft. And the other’s a Tabington Claw. It’s the workshop’s flagship model, fighter transport, top of the line. It’s either escort for the other two or it belongs to some folks who are a sight rougher than the owners of the luxury craft.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Frey. “Alright. Go and wake the others.