The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [47]
“I figured that much out,” said Frey. “So what is it?”
“It’s a power source,” Grist said. “Like nothin’ you’ve ever seen before.” His eyes drifted to the sphere, and they took on that hungry look again. “When them Navy boys looked over that dreadnought they shot down, they couldn’t find nothin’ that looked like a prothane engine, nor any sign of aerium neither. The science fellers reckoned it had to be powered by somethin’ else.” He scratched at his bearded cheek. “Somethin’ like this.”
“This is what you came looking for?” Crake asked, peering closer at the sphere.
“Ain’t it enough?” Grist asked. “A power source that don’t need aerium or prothane? If you could figure it out, you could power a fleet with these things. You’d never need to refuel. Allsoul’s balls, it’d be a revolution! The Fourth Age of Aviation!” He nodded his head toward the sphere. “You know what this is worth to the right people? There ain’t enough numbers in the world.”
“I’ve got some. Fifty-five–forty-five,” said Frey. “Like we agreed.”
“Aye,” said Grist reluctantly. “Fair’s fair. I reckon even fifty-five percent’ll be more money than I can spend in a lifetime.”
“Don’t forget my five percent!” Hodd chimed in hopefully.
“Aye, yes, five percent for you,” said Grist, waving him away.
Frey lowered his cutlass. “The deal stands, then.”
“The deal stands,” Grist agreed.
Frey slid the blade back into his belt. The tension in the room eased down a notch.
“Better let me run some tests on that sphere before anyone touches it,” Crake suggested. “Don’t want anyone dead. I’ll go get my equipment.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Frey.
Frey was at the doorway when Grist spoke. “One more thing, Cap’n Frey,” he said quietly. “Draw a blade on me again and it’ll be the last thing you do.”
“If I have to draw this blade on you again, Captain Grist, it’ll be the last thing you see,” Frey replied.
They retreated to the antechamber, where Crake began gathering up his equipment and moving it down to the room with the sphere. Frey didn’t help. Instead, he took his lantern and went and stood in the passageway outside the antechamber. He needed a little air, or as much air as he could get in this place.
Frey leaned against the chill metal wall and listened to his heart slow. Damn, he’d been frightened. Hadn’t shown it, but he’d felt it inside. There was something about Grist. He’d caught a glimpse of the man under the grins and the laughter and the backslapping, and it had scared him. Something black and furious and maniacal.
He hadn’t forgotten Gimble’s fate either, the careless way Grist’s bosun abandoned a wounded crewmate to die. A captain’s nature was reflected in his crew, Frey reckoned, and that didn’t speak well of Grist. Partnering up with him seemed like less and less of a good idea.
But he was committed now. And, to be fair, Grist hadn’t done anything Frey wouldn’t have done himself, if he were in Grist’s boots. So what if he’d kept some secrets to himself? A lie by omission was barely a lie at all, really. At least Frey had figured it out in time.
Maybe they could still come out of this rich. But he’d have to keep a close eye on Grist. That was for certain.
You don’t know nothin’ about me, Grist had said. That, at least, was the truth.
He thought about heading off to search for Silo and Jez but decided against it in the end. No sense everybody getting lost. If they weren’t back by the time Crake was done, they’d all search together. In the meantime, he daydreamed about the kinds of things he could spend all that money on. This time, he promised himself, he wouldn’t fritter it away. He’d do something worthwhile. No blowing it on cards and booze and women.
Maybe he’d build an orphanage. After all, he’d have money to burn. Might ease his conscience a bit. It’d go some way to making amends for a squandered life, anyway. Besides, a man could do pretty much what he wanted, as long as he could say he’d built an orphanage.