The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [24]
And, in the distance, a terrible sound. The howling of the Manes. Calling for her. Calling her to be with them. To join them, beyond the Wrack.
Don’t listen to them, she told herself. You’re not one of them. You’re human.
But the dread of their voices was too much. She had to retreat. In moments, the trance had passed.
She slipped in and out of that strange state easily and frequently now. She’d learned to cope with the flood of sensation, to enjoy the thrill of it. But the Manes were always there, waiting for her, beckoning. She was afraid of their summons. She didn’t know if she could resist it forever.
She’d experienced what it was to be a Mane, for the briefest of instants, during her aborted transformation. She’d felt their connectedness, the joy of their companionship. The link they shared, the togetherness they felt. After that, it was hard not to feel lonely. They wanted her, not to harm her but to embrace her.
That was why she was afraid. To embrace the Manes would be to give up her humanity forever. To become one of them would be to surrender herself. And she wouldn’t do that.
Frey stirred in his seat, glanced up at Jez and then back at the island before them. “There she is,” he said.
“There she is,” Jez agreed.
“You ever wonder if half the stuff they say about this place is true?”
“It’s probably not,” she said. “But still, the Coalition would rather colonize New Vardia—on the other side of the world and the other side of the Storm Belt—than colonize a land mass that lies a pleasant half day’s flight off their coast.”
“Hmm,” said Frey. “That’s not a good sign, is it?”
“Not really.”
“If I get eaten, you can have the Ketty Jay, okay?”
“That’s very sweet of you. What if you get stamped on, poisoned, or die horribly from some unknown plague?”
Frey gave her a look. “Just get back to your charts, why don’t you?”
She grinned and saluted. “Right you are, Cap’n!”
THE EXPEDITION SETS OUT—RAIN—JEZ TAKES FIRST WATCH—SILO’S STORY
rake pulled the collar of his coat up and hunched his shoulders against the cold. It always seemed to be cold nowadays. On the Ketty Jay or off it, there was a chill in his core that never quite went away.
The clouds were iron-gray overhead, and an arctic breeze came from the north, pushing through the rainforest. The Ketty Jay sat in a bald, rocky clearing, with tree-covered mountains on either side. Crake stood under her tail, the cargo ramp lying open behind him. In the distance, a waterfall plunged hundreds of feet from a ridge of cliffs. When the wind was right, Crake could hear its dull, sullen roar.
Nearby, the Storm Dog was easing itself down. The air was sharp with the smell of aerium gas as it vented its tanks.
The Storm Dog was craggy and rectangular, like a beam of black petrified timber. Its prow was blunt and its hull pocked and uneven, stained with cloud rime and ice burn. It sank onto its landing struts with an artless crunch and settled in the clearing. The air shimmered and rippled as it wheezed out the last of its aerium in an invisible cloud, then its engines shut off.
For a moment, there was quiet. An awesome, massive silence. Only the stir of the wind sounded over the endless industry of the waterfall. Crake tipped back his head, closed his eyes, and basked in the nothingness.
“Hey, Crake!” Pinn yelled from the cargo hold. “Give us a hand here! Half of this is your stuff!”
Crake’s eyes fluttered open. The birds and insects of the rainforest, which had been silenced by the disturbance, began to pick up their songs again. Hydraulics whirred as the Storm Dog opened its cargo ramp. The moment had passed.
Too brief. All too brief.
The others were coming down the Ketty Jay’s ramp, carrying packs and equipment. Tents, weapons, food, and Crake’s daemonist equipment, which they’d need when they reached their destination. Bess