The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [55]
He’d imagined a reunion many times since, in many different ways. But always in circumstances more favorable than this.
Then he saw her. She stepped off the shuttle, her bosun by her side. Slender, dressed head to toe in black. Chalk-white skin, short blond hair hacked into clumps. Red lips, garishly painted. She wore contact lenses to blacken her irises, making her pupils seem wide as coins. Everything about her was calculated to unsettle. She dressed like Death’s bride, or perhaps his whore, and people called her both.
The very sight of her made him angry. He couldn’t help it. How could she bury her beauty under this horrifying façade? Her very existence was a blasphemy against the girl who lived in his memory. His idealized portrait of perfect romance. The love that might have been.
How could she do that to him?
“Trinica Dracken,” Grist muttered. “I heard of her.”
“Yeah,” said Frey. “Me too.”
He recognized her bosun from their last meeting. A squat man, with matted black hair that hung untidily around a swarthy, simian face. His skin was puckered in a patch over his cheek and throat, a burn scar, visible above the collar of his shirt. Frey tried to keep his eyes on the bosun as they approached, so he wouldn’t have to look at Trinica. But his gaze kept going back to her, and eventually he gave in to it.
She stopped in front of them and looked them over. Her black eyes lingered a moment on Frey before passing by with scarcely a glimmer of recognition or greeting. Then she looked at Spanners.
“This is all they had on ’em,” he said, holding out the metal sphere.
“Then that’s what we came for,” Trinica said. “Mr. Crund?”
Her bosun took the sphere from Spanners. Grist glowered and seethed at the sight. Frey fancied he could feel the heat of the rage coming off him.
“Captain Grist, Captain Frey,” said Trinica, nodding at both of them. “It’s been a pleasure.”
And with that, she turned and walked away. Crund departed with her. The armed men who’d surrounded them backed off toward the shuttle, keeping their weapons trained on the captives.
Frey stared after her. Stunned.
That was it? That was all? No Long time, Darian? Not even the banter of old adversaries? He’d waited a year to see her again and that was all she gave him?
She’d robbed him doubly this time. It wasn’t just that she’d taken the sphere from them; it was that she’d done it with such a shattering disregard for his feelings. He’d thought about her ever since their last meeting, reliving that final smile she’d given him. A smile that came from the old Trinica, the briefest glimpse of the young woman he’d loved. He believed in that smile. He’d convinced himself that young woman was still there, buried under the heartless criminal she’d become. He’d fantasized about meeting her again, teasing out that smile once more.
But she apparently hadn’t given him a moment’s consideration.
They stood in silence as the shuttle rejoined the frigate. Nobody was quite sure what to say. They watched as the Delirium Trigger lit its thrusters and slid out of sight over the mountains.
“I really hate that bitch,” Frey muttered.
“How did she know?” Grist snarled. There was danger in his tone, like the ominous rumblings that precede an earthquake. His face was red; he was almost choking with rage. “How did she find us? How did she know?” He turned and faced the group. “Which one of you told her?”
Frey was intimidated enough to take an unconscious step back, but Malvery was uncowed. “Calm down, mate,” he said. “We’ve not been out of your sight since you came to us with the job. It’s hardly gonna be one of us.”
Hodd raised a quivering hand. “Remember that I, ah, approached several people before I came across your good self, Captain Grist. It’s entirely possible that—”
He got no further. Grist gave a bellow of rage and punched him in the face with appalling force. Hodd squealed