The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [152]
Frey rolled his eyes and swore. “Come on, then.”
They rounded the corner and hurried along a row of vats. Gas flames roared at their bases. Some of them were beginning to bubble. Viscous liquid oozed over the rims and splattered on the floor. The stench made Frey light-headed.
They were halfway along the row when three men ran into view at the far end, carrying shotguns. They were unkempt figures, wearing overalls, their faces lit from below by the gas flames. They paused at the sight of Frey and his group, perhaps thinking that they were on the same side; then one of them raised his shotgun and screamed, “Sammie!” Even in the half-light, the Samarlan’s skin marked him out immediately.
The moment of hesitation was not shared by Frey and his companions. They got off their first volley before the refinery workers even had a chance to shoot. But their accuracy was less impressive than their speed. The workers, alarmed at finding themselves suddenly under fire, shot wildly in the vague direction of their targets, then threw themselves into cover. Frey’s group did the same, squeezing into the gaps between the vats.
The Sammie just stood there in the aisle, back straight, an imperious look on his face. Bullets whined through the air around him. He faced them without fear.
“What in blazing shit is that idiot doing?” Frey cried. Presumably, the Samarlan was too dignified to cram himself into the baking hot blackness with the rest of them. “Malvery, get him out of there!”
Malvery lunged from hiding, grabbed the Samarlan, and pulled him into cover. When he began to hiss again, Malvery whacked his head against the side of a vat. He was too shocked to say anything after that.
Frey checked on Trinica, who was pressed up against him in a not entirely unpleasant fashion, then concentrated on dealing with their attackers. These men weren’t gunfighters. They were attempting to use the vats as cover, but when they leaned out to fire, they took far too long to aim. That, and they tended to lean out at roughly regular intervals, letting Frey predict when and where they’d appear, so he could line up his shots. Easy pickings.
He clipped one with a bullet in the shoulder, sending him sprawling out into the open, where Silo finished him off. Malvery hit another man clean in the face. The last worker was understandably distressed by the sight and ran away, shouting, “Sammie! Sammie!”
Frey breathed a sigh of relief, then yelped as burning hot liquid bubbled up and spilled from the vat overhead, splashing his leg. He danced out into the aisle, beating at himself. The others emerged in a more controlled fashion.
They set off again in a different direction. The Samarlan began snapping at Silo as they went. It was making Frey angry on his friend’s behalf. Silo suffered the abuse with a kind of furious submission. He wasn’t making any attempt to defend himself while the Samarlan chewed him out.
“What’s he saying?” he demanded of Roke.
“He’s just confused as to why there’s a Murthian here,” Roke replied.
“No, he’s not,” said Trinica. “He’s calling your engineer all kinds of names, most of which involve his mother, and he’s doing it in the mode they use to talk to slaves and animals.” She listened for a moment. “Right now he wants to know why Silo didn’t try to shield him from the bullets.”
Frey had forgotten that Trinica spoke Samarlan. He was almost as surprised as Roke.
“Er …” said Roke. “You get us both out unharmed if you want to know where Grist is,” he reminded Frey.
Frey shook his head and cursed. “You tell that bastard that we’re in Vardia now, and Silo’s no slave.” Roke dropped back to do so. Frey went over to Silo, shoving the Samarlan aside on his way. The Samarlan squawked in outrage. Roke did his best to calm him.
Silo was looking at the floor, every muscle tense. Frey thought about putting an arm on his shoulder, then thought better of it. “Silo …”
“Been nine years since anyone spoke to me that way,” Silo said, through gritted teeth. “Damned if it don’t still make me cringe