The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [178]
Pinn had told him the news, gleefully, during one of the rare moments when he wasn’t depressed about his own sorry love life. “Your girlfriend’s a Mane!” he crowed. “She’s the walking dead! How’d that be, eh? Humping a dead one!” He leered horribly and made a pumping motion with his hips. “I always pegged you as a necromofelliac.”
Harkins had never heard of one of those before, but it didn’t sound like something he wanted to be. Still, he wasn’t particularly concerned by the news. Alive or dead or some combination of the two, she was the same old Jez to him. What did concern him was how the rest of the crew began to talk about her after it became known that she was a Mane. They were mistrustful and uncertain. She didn’t deserve that.
He tried to keep her spirits up when she came to visit him, but he always got tongue-tied. Did she think he was like the others, muttering behind her back? He hoped not, but it was hard to tell. Damn, why couldn’t he make his mouth say what his heart felt? Why was he born with a knot between his brain and his voice box?
Well, actions spoke louder than words anyway. And he needed to be brave. That fat fool Pinn had deserted them good and proper, so there was no one left but him. He needed to be strong for Jez. Somehow, he was going to save her.
He wondered how he’d possibly find the courage to single-handedly defeat Grist’s gang of smugglers, if he couldn’t deal with one elderly cat.
He hurried down the stairs, across the cargo hold, and down the ramp. The Cap’n would have chewed him out for leaving it open, but he needed his escape route clear. He’d left the hood of his cockpit up as well, just to be extra sure. If he spotted Slag, it would take him only seconds to reach the safety of the Firecrow.
He scampered off the Ketty Jay and came to a halt with a sigh of relief. The cat wouldn’t follow him out here. Stupid animal. He closed up the ramp and locked it by punching in a code on the exterior control panel, located on one of the Ketty Jay’s rear landing struts.
That was when he saw what was happening to the sky.
The morning had been chilly and gray when he entered the Ketty Jay in search of the weapons locker. A shapeless haze of cloud had hung overhead, and the sun had been low on the horizon, shining with a sharp, glittering light.
But things were different now. The sky had curdled and darkened. The wispy, inoffensive sheet of cloud had turned thick and black. Pulses of light flickered in its depths. A strong, icy wind had struck up, blowing the earflaps of Harkins’s cap against his cheeks. Despite the gathering storm, the sun was still visible in the east, between the cloud and the horizon: a shining pupil in a slitted eye. It cast a spectral light over the bleak vista.
Harkins didn’t like this. Not at all. There was an eerie, oppressive quality to the atmosphere. He had keen senses when it came to detecting threats. He’d had a lot of practice at being scared, and he was good at it.
This was no ordinary storm.
The clouds were moving, but it wasn’t the wind that was pushing them. They were swirling, slowly at first but getting faster, as if stirred by a spoon. Gathering, becoming dense, drawing inward toward a single spot. At that point, the pulses of light had reached a frenzy. The cloud roiled and turned. Silent lightning threw out giant sparks.
Harkins became aware that he was making a low, distressed moan. His feet were rooted to the tarmac. The crewmen of nearby craft had stopped their work and were looking up. Tractors sputtered to a halt