The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,184

Flying was the only thing he could do, and the only activity he really loved. Take that away, and there wasn't much left.

No, he was trapped in the cockpit till the end. That was plain.

Just let me live through this.

'Hey!' It was Pinn. 'Down there! To your starboard.'

He looked, and his eye was drawn by a sharp, rapid flash. An electroheliograph. It took him a moment to recognise the blocky, ugly shape of the Ketty Jay. And there was only one person aboard who could operate an electroheliograph that fast.

Jez!

His heart filled and swelled in his chest. A brown-toothed grin split his lips. Jez! Alive and well! He was overcome with joy, and for a few seconds he could do nothing but beam like an idiot.

'They're signalling,' said Pinn. 'I think it's . . . er . . .'

Harkins remembered himself. Quick, quick. What was she saying? It was a code, designed to speedily transmit a message without the need to spell it out. Defend us.

'Yes, ma'am!' he said happily.

'What?' Swept up in the heat of the moment, he'd forgotten Pinn could hear him.

'Nothing. They need us to, er, keep the Blackhawks off them, I suppose.'

'Where are they heading? They're flying into the battle.'

'Let's just do what they say!' Harkins snapped, surprising himself.

Pinn sounded equally surprised. 'Alright, alright. Let's get down there.'

Harkins tipped the Firecrow into a dive, keeping a wary eye out for Blackhawks. It did seem that the Ketty Jay was aiming itself into the heart of the conflict, but he had to assume the Cap'n had his reasons.

His train of thought was interrupted by an artillery shell, which exploded uncomfortably close to him and made him yelp. Concussion shoved at the Firecrow and jolted him in his seat, hard enough to make his cap fall off. The engines groaned as they cut through the disturbed air, then settled back to their usual pitch.

Harkins wasn't a vain man, but he didn't much care for showing off his balding pate, and he felt naked without his cap. He groped around for it in the cockpit, keeping his eye on the skies. When he couldn't find it at his feet, he reached under the seat.

His hand closed on something. Something warm. Something that was all tangled fur and stringy muscle.

'Oh, no,' he said quietly.

With a yowl like the shrieks of the damned, Slag exploded out of hiding and sank his claws into Harkins' calf. Harkins wailed operatically, kicking his leg this way and that in an attempt to dislodge his attacker. But the cat was hanging on as if his life depended on it.

Harkins' flailing hand brushed against his cap, which had fallen down the side of his seat. He scooped it up and and began to beat at the cat with it, maddened by agony.

'Harkins!' Pinn said. 'You getting laid in there? What in rot's name is going on?'

The drone of his engines ascended as the steepness of his dive increased. He wasn't even holding the flight stick any more. He was faintly aware that his aircraft was out of control, but the danger of that seemed dim in the face of the more immediate peril.

Slag released him at last, surrendering to the flurry of blows. He bolted into the footwell, where he ran around between the foot-pedal controls, screeching and hissing. Harkins tried to pull his legs up, but he was strapped in to his seat and he couldn't get far enough out of the way. His leg seared with pain and his trousers were wet with blood.

Pinn was shouting in his ear, but he wasn't listening. His entire attention was focused on the cat.

Slag shot out of the footwell, under his seat and behind him. Harkins fought to turn around, desperate to keep his attacker in view. Having that monster in front of him was bad enough; having him out of sight was worse. But his straps foiled him. He thrashed against them, fumbling for the release, but his hands were clumsy. G-forces were pressing him against his seat. His head was thumping as it filled with blood.

'Pull up! Harkins! You're diving too steep! Pull up!'

The city spun and veered beneath him. Terrifyingly solid, filling his view. The engines had reached an alarming pitch.

Instinct took over. The Firecrow was tumbling. He grabbed at the stick and fought against the roll. He needed to stabilise before he could level off. Otherwise, he wouldn't know which way was up.

There was the sound of fabric ripping. Claws on the back