The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,104

green-lensed glasses. 'You alright?'

She gave a small nod and stayed where she was, staring at the ceiling.

'Hmm,' said Malvery. He made a show of looking about for something, then patted her awkwardly on the arm and left.

He's scared of me now. And so he should be.

Jez listened to the room, and to Silo's breathing. The Ketty Jay was airborne, but the engines were quiet. They were being towed, then.

Presumably by the Storm Dog. Apparently, the Cap'n's plan to abscond with the sphere hadn't gone entirely as hoped. She didn't really care.

She felt achingly, horribly lonely. Lonelier than she'd ever felt in her life. She'd been there, among the Manes. She'd shared them. And now they'd gone again. It was like she'd awoken from a dream of happy crowds to find herself abandoned on an endless sea.

She remembered everything that had happened. The Imperator's terrible influence, how she'd quailed and cowered with the rest of them. She'd been pressed to the floor by the weight of his presence. Then, the trance. Surging up and overwhelming her. Her enfeebled human mind had been incapable of resisting or controlling it. It took her eagerly, a mad beast finally uncaged. And everything became different.

That feeling. The power of it. She'd been more than just flesh and blood then. Her small body had become the sum of thousands. The world had gone dim and yet been stark with detail. She saw the curl of the smoke along the roof and she could track its pattern. She smelt the terror of her companions. She felt the savage joy of the Manes, her invisible brothers and sisters behind the Wrack, as they welcomed her among them. And she heard the mad voice of the Imperator, a thrashing mess of harmonics tearing into her consciousness.

She had to extinguish it.

The urge to rid herself of her opponent was primal, unquestionable. She used her gun at first - a human weapon, which proved ineffective. Then she went in with hands and teeth.

Strong. Fast. Terrible.

With the death of the Imperator, her humanity had rallied and driven the Mane part of her into retreat. But the pain of loss it brought was unbearable. The sense of inclusion, the warmth of the Manes, all of it had disappeared. Better that she'd never known it at all, than to have it and then be shut out.

She was thrown back to the world she'd always known. Except that now her crew knew what she was. They'd seen it. And she was ashamed and frightened.

'Say something,' she murmured.

Silo got up from his chair and walked over to her. She turned her head to look at him. So hard to read a Murthian's expressions. Was it just Silo, or was it a trait of their kind? Perhaps generations of slavery had taught them never to show their real selves. Jez had learned that lesson on her own, and look where it got her. She was sick of the secrecy. They all put so much effort into being alone.

'Damn your silence,' she said. 'Tell me what you're thinking, for once. You talked to me in Kurg. Why not now?'

'That was then,' said Silo. 'Words don't never do justice to a man's thoughts. What you care 'bout mine?'

'Because I counted you as my friend, Silo. I want to know if you still are.'

'That ain't changed. Whatever you be, that ain't changed.'

'Then what has?'

Silo didn't answer. Instead, he said, 'Remember what I told you, back in the rainforest?'

'You said it wasn't any good trying to ignore your bad side. You have to face it down. Master it. Make it a part of you.'

A calloused hand slipped over hers and tightened. Jez felt tears gathering.

'Now you know,' he said, sadly. 'Now you know.'

Evening found Crake and his captain leaning on a wooden railing, wrapped in furs, their breath steaming the air. The sun was setting in the west, throwing a bleak light over the tundra. The great plain was depressingly barren. Only the hardiest of shrubs and grasses grew in the frozen earth, in the lee of the stony hillocks that rumpled the landscape. A spiteful wind nipped at their faces. Even in spring, a mere hundred kloms or so north of the border, Yortland was bitterly cold.

From their vantage point - a path set into the hillside - they had a good view of the docks below. The main landing pad was cluttered with ugly, blockish aircraft. Flying bricks, Jez liked to call them: she didn't have a high opinion