The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,108

got that letter from his sweetheart, but he became downright mutinous at the news that Trinica Dracken would be travelling with them. It took all of Frey's powers of coercion, and a few good old-fashioned threats, before he'd consent to go anywhere with a woman he loathed.

Pinn's opinion of Dracken was shared by the rest of the crew, although none of them were as vocal as he was. Even Frey had decided he didn't much want her on board. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but having her here destroyed the one safe haven he had in his life. When he was flying the Ketty Jay he could pretend that he was a mighty captain, free to find adventure wherever it lay. A lord of the skies! But Trinica's presence punctured all his illusions. Reflected in those black, black eyes, he saw himself as she must: captain of a heap of junk, leader of a miserable crew, a man who'd made nothing of himself.

'Are your engines supposed to make that sound?' she inquired, as Frey lowered the Ketty Jay towards the small, crowded landing pad.

'Didn't have time to get them fixed in Iktak, did I?' he said. 'Speed is of the essence, and all that. It would've taken a couple of weeks to get the parts.' Not that I could have afforded them, anyway, he added mentally.

'You must have a fine engineer, then,' Trinica remarked.

He couldn't work out whether the compliment was snide or genuine, but it didn't matter in the end. Just by being here, she made him feel like a failure.

What was he even doing? Chasing after some artefact with no clear idea of what it was or what it did? It wasn't as if he could sell the thing, even if he did get his hands on it. Frey didn't have the most sensitive conscience, but he still balked at the idea of delivering a super-weapon into the hands of the highest bidder. His dreams of a fortune had gone up in smoke, yet he went on anyway. Just like one of those idiots he saw at the Rake tables. The ones who lost everything while waiting for their luck to change.

Was he doing it to get back at Grist? Perhaps. Perhaps it was just because he was tired of being stepped on by everyone, not least the woman standing next to him. Or perhaps . . . perhaps he just needed this.

What will I leave behind? The question that had been plaguing him ever since he'd almost died while being chased by a bunch of over-persistent yokels. Well, if he could avoid leaving thousands of corpses behind, that would be good. Mass murder was a legacy he could do without.

Damn the reasons. Damn it all. He wasn't failing this time. That was all there was to it.

The town hall was one of the oldest structures in Hawk Point. It was a grand building, stony and solid, dating from a time when Hawk Point was young and full of optimism. It had been designed as the heart of the settlement, the place from which the founders would put all their plans into practice. Plans for a just and honest outpost, where a man would get a fair wage for a fair day's work, and people were decent to one another.

That had been a long time ago. Those plans were forgotten, the people who made them dead or departed. The streets stank in the heat. The gutters were choked with rubbish that the sewers coughed up when the rains came. Mould streaked the post office walls. The schoolhouse windows were all smashed. The town hall itself was surrounded by a spiked barricade and watched by armed guards.

'This Smult feller,' said Frey, as they made their way up the street. 'He can't be doing too well for himself if he lives in a dump like this.'

'You always did judge by appearances, Darian,' Trinica said.

'What of it? Most of the time it's a pretty good indicator.'

She tutted. 'And I thought you were sharper than that. People only show you what they want you to see. Haven't you learned that by now?'

Frey looked her over with a raised eyebrow. Her deathly pallor, her butchered hair. 'I've picked up some hints,' he said. She scowled at him.

People watched them from doorways and alleyways. Mostly men and a few women, their gazes hungry or hostile. This wasn't a place for strangers. Frey kept his hands near his cutlass and pistols.