The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [150]
“Hey! You all stay your damn selves here or I’ll shoot your cowardly hides!” Samandra yelled.
There was a boom that made them all jump, and a shower of concrete dust fell from the ceiling. Colden Grudge was standing in the doorway to the common area, his autocannon smoking. Grissom sloped over to stand next to him and shucked back his duster, revealing knives and pistols. Suddenly nobody felt like leaving anymore.
“What can we do?” Samandra asked Roke.
“Get us out of here!” he said.
“That’s what they want. They’ll be waiting for us outside, with overwhelming numbers, and we can’t protect all of you. What else?”
Roke thought for a moment. “There’s a master override switch. It shuts down the refinery in case of emergency. They won’t be able to turn it back on without a code, and only the staff knows that. I can show you.”
“Not you,” said Samandra. “You’re staying here. The Navy’s going to want a word with you.”
“I’ll take you,” volunteered a young man with oiled blond hair in a neat center parting. A brave and gallant-looking sort, too young to know what danger was. Probably eager to get the attention of the beautiful Century Knight.
Samandra favored him with a knee-weakening smile. “Much appreciated, sir.” She turned and began calling out orders. “Grudge, Jask, with me. Grissom, you stay and guard the staff.”
“I’m not babysitting this bunch of—” Grissom began to protest, but Frey cut him off.
“We’ll stay,” he said.
Samandra looked him over suspiciously. Sizing him up in the red darkness.
“Safer up here. Besides, I’m the only one of my lot that can shoot worth a shit,” he lied. “And I said I’d look after her.” He thumbed at Trinica.
“The passenger. Right,” said Samandra. She frowned at him. A you’d-better-not-be-up-to-something kind of frown. Frey put on his most winning grin.
“Ticktock, Samandra!” said Grissom, by the door.
“Fine,” she said. “I can’t spare a Knight anyway. Don’t even think about going anywhere, though. You’d never make it to your aircraft.”
“Hey,” said Frey, raising his hands. “Nobody wants to keep me alive more than I do.”
Samandra gave him one last, uncertain look. “Weapons are on the table,” she said, pointing to the shotguns and pistols that had been brought up by the mercs. “Good luck.” Then she was heading toward the exit, herding their enthusiastic young guide ahead of her, shouting for the mercs to back them up.
Frey waited until they were gone and said, “Did you hear that, Jez?”
“Certainly did, Cap’n,” said his navigator, in his ear. “Meet you on the roof of the refinery in ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes,” he said. He turned to Malvery, who’d scooped up a shotgun and was admiring it. “Doc, pull that Sammie out of there,” he said, pointing at the door where Jask had stood.
“That’s my guest!” Roke protested. “You’d better not be—”
“I’ll make you a deal, Roke,” Frey interrupted him. He picked up a pistol, checked it, and began loading it. New model. Pristine condition. Very nice. “I get you and the Sammie out of here, you tell me where Grist is. Simple, right?”
“Agreed,” said Roke, without hesitation. “There’s a port nearby where I can arrange transport for my guest and I. Take us there and I’ll tell you.”
“How do we get to the roof?”
“The roof?” Roke thought for a moment. “The access door is locked, and the head caretaker isn’t here. No idea where the key is. We’ll have to take the elevator.” He motioned at the window. “Out there.”
There was a loud bang from below, and several of the window squares shattered. One of the company men toppled backward, his head and chest a mess of blood and torn skin. The others began to shriek and scramble over one another in an attempt to get away.
“Probably shouldn’t be standing next to the window, huh?” Frey muttered to himself, as he pulled Roke aside. Malvery emerged with the Samarlan. Trinica and Silo joined them as the company men hightailed it back to their offices and locked the doors. Silo was glaring with naked hatred at the Samarlan. The very sight of the man inflamed