The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,195

gunfire drowned out all other sounds. Frey threw caution to the wind and ran, hurrying along the walkways, until finally he saw them.

They'd taken position at one corner of the engine assembly, on the floor of the chamber. They'd piled up a barricade of parts and equipment between the protruding iron pipes, and were hiding there, facing away from Frey. There was Grist, a hulking, hateful figure in a grubby greatcoat, wreathed in smoke as ever. The sphere was wrapped up in a coat at his feet. He had a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other, ready for hand-to-hand combat if things should come to that. Next to him was his scrawny, gaunt bosun, bald skull shining with sweat.

With them was Trinica. Black-clad, white-haired, crouching at the barricade with the rest of them, a pistol in her hand. Trinica. Alive and kicking.

His reaction was not what he'd expected. Bitterness tinged his relief. He suddenly remembered the burn of her betrayal. It angered him to find her like this: not as a prisoner, but ready to fight on Grist's side. Of course, even enemies became allies when necessary, and she was probably only being practical. But it upset his vision of the grateful maiden, waiting to be saved, and that spoiled things.

All he'd wanted to do, ever since he saw the Storm Dog disappear into the vortex, was to rescue Trinica. But now he knew that wasn't quite right. He wanted to rescue the idea of her. To salvage the possibility of love as he'd once known it. But the reality was considerably more complex and messy.

How was it that life never worked out the way it did in his head?

Well, anyway, they were here now, and he was bloody well going to rescue her. If only so he could hold it over her later.

There were six of them in all, including Trinica. Along with Grist and Crattle were two sturdy-looking thugs and a scared engineer. Another man lay face-down, shot through the chest. All of them, except Trinica and the corpse, were occupied with shooting at the Mane, to no effect. Trinica, sensibly, was saving her ammo.

Keeping well to their rear, Frey took the opportunity to descend from the walkway to ground level. Shooting down on them from an elevated position seemed like a good idea at first, but the walkways provided little protection from return fire, and Frey didn't much fancy catching a bullet between the legs.

He reached ground level a dozen metres behind Grist's position. Silo followed him down, and Malvery was just stepping off when Crattle yelled, 'The Manes are coming in! Get ready!' Then, warned by some intuition, the bosun looked over his shoulder, and saw Frey and his men.

They needed no other signal. Frey, Malvery and Silo opened fire.

Their first shots, instinctively, were all aimed at Crattle, who'd raised his pistol towards them. He jerked and twisted, bloody spray punching from his back, and went sprawling to the floor. The rest of Grist's crew had a few seconds to react. It wasn't enough. Silo and Malvery chambered new rounds, picked their targets, and blew them away. The last of Grist's men, the engineer, managed to get off one wild shot before he, too, was killed.

While his companions took care of the others, Frey aimed at Grist. But a dozen metres wasn't an easy distance for Frey, and Grist was quick for a big man. Frey took three shots, but somehow Grist slipped between them, and Frey hit nothing.

Trinica hadn't been as fast to appraise the situation as Grist had. She wasted an instant on shock, surprised by the sight of Frey. Then Grist came lunging towards her. Too late, she raised her pistol to shoot him. He cannoned into her, knocking her weapon aside. They rolled together along the ground, and he ended up with one huge arm around her throat, gun pressed to her head. He slid backwards until he came up against the barricade, and lay there, with her lying across him as a shield.

Grist grinned. Stalemate. Again.

Not this time.

Frey raised his pistol and aimed it at Grist's head, where it protruded from behind Trinica's. She was struggling in the captain's grip, but she didn't have his strength.

At that moment, there was a triumphant howl, multiplying rapidly in volume. The door was opening. The Manes were getting in.

'We gotta go, Cap'n,' Malvery said.

I might hit her, he thought, sighting down the barrel of his pistol. His hand began to