The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [149]
“When did you stop being a common man?” Samandra asked.
Roke ignored her jab. “There’s no law against associating with Samarlans, last I heard. Our own Earl Hengar was well known for his dalliances. So why am I treated like a criminal?”
“Because it is illegal to sell them aerium, especially since a lot of folk think they’re tooling up a navy to have another go at invading us,” said Samandra. “And that would make you a traitor. Anyway, you’ll be given safe passage when the Navy gets here. And you’ll be released after you’ve satisfied our curiosity as to why a man high up in an eminent aerium mining company is so chummy with one of our old enemies from the South.”
“That’s not good enough,” said Roke.
“Well, it’ll have to be.”
Roke rolled his eyes and looked at Frey. “Your friend here doesn’t grasp the basics of negotiation, does she?”
“She does seem an inflexible sort,” Frey agreed.
“Perhaps you’re a more reasonable man to deal with?”
“Hey!” snapped Samandra. “You’re dealing with the Century Knights, not him.”
“Then I’m afraid we have nothing more to—”
Roke was interrupted by a rumble that ran through the building, making the walls shudder. Frey listened in alarm as the refinery began to echo with distant groans, shrieks, and eerie wails, as if some enormous metal monster was slowly shaking itself awake.
“The refinery!” Roke exclaimed. “They’ve started it up!”
“Who?”
“The workers! Them and their bloody Underground!” Roke sprang out of his chair, agitated. “They got inside.” His eyes widened. “They’re going to overload the machines!”
“That sounds like it’ll be a bad thing,” Frey observed carefully.
“They’ll blow us all to pieces!”
“Right,” said Frey. “Definitely bad, then.”
INSURRECTIONISTS—FREY BETRAYS A TRUST—FOREIGNERS—THE MEANING OF FREEDOM
he window overlooking the refinery floor was crowded with bodies. The besuited officials of Gradmuth Operations had emerged in a panic, alarmed by the noise from below. They jostled for space with the mercs, hoping to see what was going on. Frey pushed through the common room to the window and looked down.
The refinery had come alive. Great rock-chewing machines gnashed their teeth. Vats of viscous liquid had begun to churn. Kilns glowed as they roared into life. There was a furious racket of grinding gears. A thin smoke had begun to rise. Frey saw men running among the equipment, yanking levers, thumping buttons.
“How did they get in?” someone cried.
Gunfire rattled outside. The mercs on the gate were engaging the invaders. Frey doubted the miners and factory workers were stupid enough to try a full-frontal assault. Much more likely, they’d got in behind the defenses and were overrunning the refinery compound.
He’d wondered where most of the village had disappeared to. By the sounds of it, they were all here.
Roke pushed in next to him, with Samandra at his shoulder. At the same time, the overhead lamps died. The refinery was already dim—natural light was shut out—but now it was plunged into darkness, lit only by the fiery red of the awakening furnaces. The scampering figures below became daemonic, mischievous imps racing through the bloody glow.
“They’re sabotaging the refinery! Those bastard muck-scraping ingrates!” Roke said. “We have to get out of here!”
“I’m not going down there!” said a bewhiskered and mona-cled company man. “There’s dozens of them! With guns! We’ll be lynched!”
“Idiot!” Roke said. “Don’t you know what happens if you turn the machines on out of sequence? The kilns will fire up before the coolant starts flowing. The steam pumps will rupture if there’s no one to man the valves. This place is going to tear itself apart!”
The company man went white and started to gibber in a manner that reminded Frey of Harkins at his best. “But … but … but … if they blow up the refinery … where will they work? What about their jobs?”
“Damned Underground insurrectionists!” spluttered one of his fellows. “Got them so stirred up they don’t know which side their bread’s buttered!”
The mercs, who’d overheard