The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [197]
There was a long pause from the other pilot. “You did what?”
“THIS MIGHT VERY POSSIBLY BE A STUPID IDEA”—NO TURNING BACK—THE BIGGEST CHICKEN OF THEM ALL—A PRIVATE MESSAGE
he Ketty Jay rocked and trembled, pushed by the concussive forces of the artillery exploding all around it. Frey’s shoulders were hunched, as if by making himself smaller he could somehow shrink the Ketty Jay and present a harder target. His gaze was fixed on the stormy vortex ahead of them, a vast, flashing swirl of heaving cloud. Shells flitted across his path to smash into the flanks of Navy frigates that loomed on his port side. Windblades darted past them, with squads of Blackhawks in pursuit.
Frey powered through the crossfire and hoped.
Crake’s eyes were wide as he stared at the flickering, churning maw in the sky waiting to swallow them up, as it had swallowed the Storm Dog.
“Captain,” he said. “This might very possibly be a stupid idea.”
“Very possibly,” Frey agreed. But his determination was unshakable. He hadn’t felt this certain about anything for a long time.
Grist might have been the wrong side of sane, but he wasn’t suicidal. On the contrary, he was desperate to live. Frey had to believe that the other captain knew what he was doing when he plunged into that vortex. And where the Storm Dog went, the Ketty Jay could follow.
Probably.
Pinn was on his wing, nipping and harrying the Blackhawks, drawing them away as best he could. Malvery was firing at any that came near, without much success. He never had been a brilliant shot with the autocannon. Harkins was nowhere to be seen. They’d lost sight of him a few minutes ago, when he suddenly dived away from them.
The Ketty Jay’s thrusters were laboring. There was a distressing knocking noise coming from deep in her guts. The freezing temperatures she’d endured of late had done nothing to improve the precarious state of her prothane engine. It was a testament to Silo’s skill that it was still operating at all.
He pushed them hard anyway, climbing out of the plane of conflict where the dreadnoughts and frigates were slugging it out. Gradually, the explosions fell behind them and the sky became less crowded. He focused only on his goal, ignoring the dangers all around him, as if he could bring them through unharmed by sheer force of will.
Come on, girl, he told his beloved aircraft. You can make it. I know you can.
“Cap’n!” called Malvery. “Stray Blackhawk! Coming in on our tail!”
“Where’s Pinn?”
“He’s run off the others! I reckon—” The rest of his reply was drowned out by the autocannon. Then: “I got him, Cap’n! I—”
He was interrupted by a huge explosion, terrifyingly close. The Ketty Jay’s stern end was shoved hard. Multiple impacts peppered the craft, ringing through the hull. Frey reached for the controls to correct, but the Ketty Jay was still on course. Instead, he turned in his seat and yelled up to the cupola.
“Doc? Doc, you okay?” He looked at Crake, who was hanging on to the doorway. “Crake, see if he’s okay.”
Crake leaned out into the passageway and looked up the ladder that led to the gunnery cupola. “Malvery?”
“I’m alright,” he said. “Bit deaf. The awkward bugger blew up a few meters off our tail.”
Frey didn’t have time for relief. Jez grabbed his shoulder and pointed. “Cap’n!”
The vortex had grown huge now, as they sped up and out of the conflict. Emerging through the cloud, right in their path, was the scarred bow of a dreadnought. It dwarfed them, like a cargo ship bearing down on a rowboat.
Frey pulled the flight stick to the left. Nothing happened. He tried again, then moved to the right, then shoved it desperately in every direction. Still nothing happened.
He couldn’t steer.
His pupils dilated to tiny points as he stared at the enormous aircraft bearing down on them.
“Uh-oh.”
HARKINS SPARED A MOMENT to check that his unconscious stowaway was in no danger of waking up, then headed back toward the Ketty Jay as fast as he could.
“Pinn! Where are you?”
“What happened to—”
“Never