The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [48]
Presently he heard footsteps and saw lanterns. Silo and Jez, back from their travels. He had no idea why Jez had wandered off, and he didn’t care to ask. Jez looked a bit shaken, but they both appeared unharmed.
“Everything alright?” he asked.
“Fine,” said Jez. “Just went for a look around.”
“Find anything exciting?”
“A few things,” she said. “Did Crake get through the door?”
Frey noted the rapid change of subject, but he was happy to let it pass for now. “Yeah. It was some daemonism thing. Apparently Manes are daemons. Did you know that?”
Jez went white. “No …” she said. She swallowed. “No, Cap’n. I didn’t.”
“Are you alright? You look like—”
He was cut off by the sharp sound of gunfire.
GUNFIRE—THE BEAST-MEN OF KURG—DEATH OR GLORY—FREY’S MATHEMATICS—A DEBT SOON REPAID
rey ran through the antechamber, toward the room where the metal sphere rested on its pedestal. Grist, Crattle, and Hodd were coming the other way, faces underlit by their lanterns.
“We heard shots …” Crattle began.
“The lookouts,” Frey said. “Trouble outside.” He pushed past them, into the room where Crake was working. Tuning rods were arranged all around the sphere, linked by cables to the resonator. Crake was squatting in front of it, scribbling down readings in a notebook.
“Tell me that wasn’t gunfire,” he murmured.
“Get moving. We need to get back to the others.”
“I’m not leaving my equipment!” Crake protested. “There’s no way I could afford to—”
“Alright! Gather it up! I’ll send Silo down to help you.”
On cue, Silo appeared in the doorway. “Cap’n.”
Frey was wrong-footed by Silo’s unusually fine sense of timing. “Erm … Help Crake,” he said.
“Cap’n,” replied Silo, brandishing the packs they’d brought the equipment in. Crake began frantically disconnecting everything. Grist loomed into the already crowded room.
“Is that thing safe or not?” he demanded, pointing at the sphere.
“I don’t know!” Crake said. “I haven’t had time! It takes tests, procedures, careful study—”
Grist reached past him and snatched up the sphere.
“However,” Crake continued, “a reckless disregard for one’s own life will do just as well.”
There was another volley of gunshots from outside, snapping through the silent, empty dreadnought.
“Pack up your junk and catch us up!” Frey snapped at Crake. He ran out of the room, with Grist and Crattle hard on his heels. Grist had the sphere under his arm, which Frey wasn’t happy about, but now wasn’t the time for arguments. He’d make damned sure he didn’t let the captain out of his sight, though.
They found Jez sitting by the doorway, a distant look in her eyes. Shell-shocked. Frey didn’t have time to wonder what was wrong with her. He hauled her up. “On your feet, Jez. You alright to shoot a gun?”
She shook herself and focused on him. Her face firmed. “Yes, Cap’n.”
“Come on, then.”
They backtracked through the dreadnought. The gunfire intensified as they approached the breach where they’d entered. Finally they saw daylight ahead. There, crouching among their abandoned packs in the cover of a bulkhead, was Tarworth. He was using the rifle that had been his crutch to fire out into the undergrowth. Frey reached him first. Tarworth looked up, and his eyes were afraid, but he said nothing.
Frey peered out around the ragged edge of the rip in the dreadnought’s hull. Beyond was the forest, steeped in weak daylight. It was alive with movement. Leaves rustled. Half-glimpsed figures rushed this way and that. A few dozen meters ahead of him, he could see the ridge they’d clambered down to get to the floor of the defile. That was their only way out, as far as he knew. The other three sides were sheer.
The undergrowth heaved, and Pinn and Malvery burst out of it. They raced toward him, firing wildly over their shoulders and yelling. A spear followed them and buried itself in the ground centimeters from the doctor’s foot.
“This way!” Frey cried. He drew Gimble’s revolvers and