The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [179]
This was bad. Somehow he knew this was very, very bad.
The pulses of light at the point where the clouds were gathering became faster and more frequent. They accelerated to a flickering strobe and finally to a dazzling burst of whiteness that bleached the city below. The observers shielded their eyes and turned away.
The cloud had collapsed in on itself and was being sucked away like water down a drain. It was as if the very sky was being consumed, eaten up by the hungry maelstrom.
And out of this sky, through the tunnel of the great, swirling vortex, came the dreadnoughts.
FREY BLINKED. FOR A few seconds, all he could see was white. Then darkness began to soak into the picture, giving form to the shapes around him. Fuzzy shapes and blurred colors made themselves known.
Uh? he thought, which was pretty much the best description he could come up with for his mental state at the time.
His body was pins and needles all over, numb and painfully a-tingle at the same time. His tongue lolled in his mouth, barely under his control. There was a loud whistle in his ears.
Gradually he came back to the world, as his overloaded senses restored themselves.
He was in the ancient sanctum somewhere beneath Grist’s compound. People were picking themselves up off the ground. Grist was nearby, shaking his head, dazed. Trinica was getting to her feet, leaning heavily on a table in case her legs betrayed her. Jez lay on her side, eyes open, staring into space. The metal sphere was no longer in her hands.
Then he heard something. A rapid thump, growing louder. Like someone running. Someone very heavy.
He looked up.
Bess.
The sanctum doors were set horizontally in the roof of the sanctum. The golem plunged through them like a cannonball, crashing onto the stairs with a roar. Her tiny eyes glimmered behind her face grille, bright in the gloom.
Bess was in a rare fury this morning.
Panic seized the room. Grist’s men scrambled to their feet, flailing and disoriented, desperate to escape the terror that had descended on them. But there was no way out except past Bess.
She thundered down the steps and backhanded the nearest man into the wall with enough force to shatter the brickwork. Her charge brought two more men within her reach; they were too slow to get out of the way. She snatched them up by their necks and smashed their heads together, splattering herself in blood, bone, and brain matter. Frey winced. That had to hurt.
Grist and his men had found their guns by now and were rushing for whatever cover they could find, aiming futile shots at the enraged golem in their midst. Crake, Silo, and Malvery came scrambling through the ruined doors and opened up with their own weapons, picking their targets. One of Grist’s men caught a bullet and went down, clutching the back of his leg. He fell into Bess’s path, and she stamped him flat.
Frey didn’t know how his crew had got out or how they’d got their guns back, but he was damned pleased to see them. He turned his attention to Jez, who was still immobile, eyes unfocused. He went to check her breathing, then realized there was no point. He poked her in the nose instead. She blinked. A sign of sort-of life. Good enough for the moment.
The sphere. Where was the sphere?
He cast about for it. There! It had rolled free of Jez’s hands and was lying near the base of the pedestal, beneath the daemon cage.
Grist had seen it too. Their eyes locked across the distance between them. Then both ran for it at the same moment.
Frey raced through the corridor of gunfire. Bullets scored the air around him. Bess was a bellowing mountain in the gloom, flinging furniture this way and that. But all Frey’s focus was on that sphere. He wasn’t even sure what he’d do with it, now that it had been activated. But he knew he didn’t want Grist to have it.
Both captains lunged together, and both laid hands on the sphere. They fell into a scrabbling tangle, each fighting to pull the prize from the other’s grip. Grist’s grimacing face was close to Frey