The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [206]
An arm was slowly coming through the door. Reaching out of the solid metal, as if its owner was no more substantial than smoke. As Frey watched in horror, a shoulder followed, then a head. It was a Mane, this one ethereal and elegant, a slender figure with a deathly pallor, wearing tattered robes. Its face was that of a handsome young man, with thin lips and high cheekbones. But its eyes were pale and blank like a cave-fish.
They can walk through walls! he thought, remembering his conversation with Professor Kraylock at the university. Some of them, anyway. The rumors were true.
It came on, inch by inch, as if moving through treacle. All that metal did nothing more than delay it. It would come through, this ghostly figure, and open the door from the inside. Then its fellows would flood in, and that would be the end.
Time was running out.
Frey approached the corner of the engine assembly. The voices of Grist and his men suddenly became loud. Frey realized they were nearer than he thought and stopped.
“We hold ’em here!” Grist’s gravelly voice.
“Cap’n, this has all gone to shit!” That was Crattle, his bosun. “They ain’t interested in makin’ us immortal like them. They’re killin’ everyone.”
“What you say?” said a third voice. “You wanted ’em to turn us? What kind of crazy scheme you dragged me into, you piece of—”
A gunshot made Frey jump. There was a slithering noise and a body hit the floor.
“Any more dogs wanna bark?” Grist asked. “No? Then firm your damn jaws. They’ll be comin’ in eventually. We’ll meet ’em here.”
Frey looked back at his crew. Malvery and Silo were pressed up close to him, primed, waiting for the word to go. But Grist and his men were dug in, no doubt facing the engine-room door. By the sounds of it, they were too busy arguing to notice the Mane stealthily slipping inside, but even so, Frey didn’t like the idea of a frontal assault on their fortified position.
He raised his hand and made a twirling motion with his upraised finger. Malvery made the same motion, frowned, and shrugged. Sign language for: what’s that supposed to mean?
“Go around,” Frey mouthed to them, indicating with his hand. Not for the first time, he wished he commanded a highly trained bunch of soldiers instead of a ragtag mob of rejects in varying stages of alcoholism.
Malvery understood the second time. They sneaked back the way they came, skirting the engine assembly on its other side. Frey wanted to get behind Grist, to catch him by surprise.
As they passed the entrance, he glanced down from the walkway. The Mane was three-quarters into the room, pulling its trailing leg through the door. He marveled that Grist’s men hadn’t seen it yet. He guessed they must be settling in to their positions, loading their guns, doing anything but looking where they should be.
The Manes were coming, and soon. Their shrieks sounded ever more eager, reaching a new pitch of frenzy. He had to force himself not to run.
Hold your nerve. Blunder in and you’ll get everyone killed.
He needn’t have worried. At that moment, Grist and his men spotted the phantom slipping through the door, and the racket of gunfire drowned out all other sounds. Frey threw caution to the wind and ran, hurrying along the walkways, until finally he saw them.
They’d taken position at one corner of the engine assembly, on the floor of the chamber. They’d piled up a barricade of parts and equipment between the protruding iron pipes and were hiding there, facing away from Frey. There was Grist, a hulking, hateful figure in a grubby greatcoat, wreathed in smoke as ever. The sphere was wrapped up in a coat at his feet. He had a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other, ready for hand-to-hand combat if things should come to that. Next to him was his scrawny, gaunt bosun, bald skull shining with sweat.
With them was Trinica. Black-clad, white-haired, crouching at the barricade with the rest of them, a pistol in her hand. Trinica. Alive and kicking.
His reaction was not what he’d expected. Bitterness tinged his relief.