The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [86]
Slag didn’t understand the words, but something in Harkins’s manner told him he was being taunted. He didn’t like that one bit.
He peered out from the cargo ramp. Beyond it, everything was unfamiliar. The hard comfort of grimy metal and oil was replaced with strange textures and smells. Air so fresh that it felt as if it was barely there at all. Frightening shapes loomed in the brightly lit darkness, big things with wings and fat bodies, like colossal metal flies. Behind them were sinister dwellings, their windows glowing.
Overhead, Slag could see the night sky to either side of the Ketty Jay’s tail assembly. It was black and speckled with strange lights. Something told him that there wasn’t any roof up there. What kept the lights from falling down?
The world outside was too big, too overwhelming. But still, there was his enemy, his punishment incomplete. He was dancing around and pulling faces now.
Slag focused all his concentration on Harkins. The way he did when he stalked rats. The world didn’t exist. There was only him and his prey.
He took a step forward. And another. His paw touched the tarmac.
Harkins yelped, turned tail, and ran as fast as his legs could carry him, away into the night.
Slag left the paw where it was until Harkins was out of sight, then drew it back. He sat on his haunches and began to groom himself, one eye on the landing pad. A satisfactory encounter, all in all. His dominance had been asserted. No need to venture out there, not when he was master of his own domain. What he had was quite enough.
Pleased, he settled down to guard the entrance. Let that scrawny one try to come back tonight. Slag would show him what a real predator could do.
“GET UP.”
Crake surfaced into awareness, found it unbearably terrible, and sank back toward sleep again.
“Crake! Get up!”
Someone shook him. His eyes fluttered open. A dark bedroom, plush and unfamiliar. Frey stood next to him, hand on his shoulder. Dawn light crept in through the curtains.
His face felt swollen and greasy with night sweats. His lips were sticky, and the corner of his mouth was caked with something foul. He felt as if he’d been shat whole from the dirty arse of some pestilent herd animal.
“Please go away, Cap’n,” he croaked. “If I’m not unconscious in thirty seconds I may very well die. I mean it.”
“Get dressed,” said Frey. “We’re getting out of here.”
Crake lifted himself up on his elbows and turned his head with some difficulty. The bones in his neck had apparently rusted together in the night. Frey was dressed, clad in his familiar grubby garb, pistols and cutlass stuffed through his belt.
“You’re not serious?” Crake pleaded.
Frey checked his pocket watch. “Jez is bringing the Ketty Jay to meet us at four o’clock on the edge of the estate.”
“When did you arrange that?”
“A week ago, when I came back to see you lot. Thought I might want to make a quick exit after the soirée. Turns out I do.”
Crake sat up, rubbing his aching neck. “If you put half as much effort into planning your robberies as you do sneaking away from your lovers, we’d all be rich by now.”
Frey didn’t have the patience to discuss it. “Look, Crake, it’s almost four. If you don’t get moving, I’ll leave you behind. You can explain my absence to Amalicia.”
“No thanks!” Crake said, suddenly finding his motivation. He hauled himself out of bed and began pulling his clothes on over his undergarments, pausing only to prevent himself from being sick.
Frey glanced around uneasily. “Hurry up, will you? I don’t think my pods could survive the kicking if she catches me running out on her.”
“I must say, Cap’n, this doesn’t rank among the most spectacularly brave things you’ve done.”
“I’m just not big on histrionics,” he explained. “Don’t like to see a woman cry.”
“But you’re okay with making them cry?”
“Hey, I don’t make anyone do anything. They choose to cry. Can’t help it if they think I’m something I’m not.”
“You really are quite a shit, aren’t you?”
“Why? Because I cut out the unpleasant stuff? One day she’ll thank me for not dragging