The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,59

it up. 'It didn't happen the way they say.'

Plome shook his head. 'Spit and blood, Crake. If it happened at all . . .'

'It wasn't me!' said Crake sharply. 'At least ... it was my body doing it, but I wasn't there. You understand? I reached too far, Plome. A procedure got out of control.'

Plome left his seat and paced the room in agitation. Crake stared at the fireplace. What would come next? Accusations? Recriminations? Would he be thrown out? It would be less than he deserved. At least then he wouldn't have to go through with this ill-advised plan of his.

Plome returned holding the crystal decanter. He topped up Crake's glass and his own, then put the decanter down between them and sat.

'I don't have the words,' he said. He shook his head. 'The price we pay for our calling is sometimes . . . terrible. Terrible.'

Crake swallowed as his throat tightened at the unexpected sympathy.

'What do you need?'

'I need to use your sanctum.'

Plome studied him. 'You want to use the echo chamber, don't you?'

Crake held his gaze.

'I've never dared use it,' Plome confessed. There was a tremor of excitement in his voice.

'I've used one,' said Crake. His tone left Plome in no doubt as to the result.

'After what happened, you still want to try again?'

'I'll get it right this time.'

'What if you don't?'

'I'll get it right,' Crake said firmly.

Plome mopped his brow and licked his lips nervously. 'I want to be there.'

'No. It's far too—'

'I insist!' he said, his voice shrill. 'It's my sanctum!'

His small eyes shone with fervour. Crake knew that look. He'd worn it himself once. Plome might maintain the facade of a businessman and a politician, but like Crake he was a daemonist first and foremost. The secrets of the other side were an addiction. Crake suspected that the tragedy attached to his name, far from appalling Plome, had actually increased his respect for his guest. Crake had been blooded in a way that Plome hadn't. He'd made a terrible sacrifice to the Art, and he was still coming back for more.

Plome admired him. The thought made Crake feel even worse.

'You'll handle the second line of defence,' Crake said. 'If it gets past me, we can't let it out of the sanctum.'

Plome nodded eagerly and sprang out of his chair. 'Shall we get started, then?'

'One more thing,' said Crake. 'Do you have a gun?'

Plome frowned. 'I do. Why?'

'I want you armed.'

'Armed? Whatever for?'

Crake stood up and walked past Plome towards the door. 'Because if things go wrong, I want you to shoot me.'

Plome's sanctum lay underneath his house, in a hidden basement accessible through a daemon-thralled door which employed a strong mental suggestion to turn away casual snoopers. It was well organised and laid out like a laboratory. Electric bulbs hummed behind their shades. Complex chemical apparatus stood on a workbench near a chalkboard covered with scribbled formulae. Shelves were loaded with forbidden books. Resonators and modulators were fixed to frames and trolleys. The equipment here was the best: bigger and more powerful than the portable gear Crake used. Plome was not short of cash, and not afraid to spend it on his passion.

A globular brass cage had once dominated the room, but now it had been relegated to the corner along with a few portable oil lanterns. The new prize piece stood in the centre, amid a mass of heavy cables. The echo chamber. Crake felt his stomach tighten at the sight.

It looked like a bathysphere: a ball of riveted metal, two metres in diameter, with a single porthole in a door on one side. It stood on a low plinth, braced by struts. Cables were plugged into it all over its surface.

Crake stared at the porthole, and the darkness within.

You could still turn back. Tell them you couldn't do it. They'd understand.

But back to what kind of life? What would he be to his crew, after this? Dead weight? Someone to be pitied and tolerated? No, he'd had enough of that from his family, when he was a younger man. He'd borne it from them because he didn't like or respect them. But he couldn't bear it from Frey, or Jez, or Malvery.

He refused to be pathetic. Better to be dead.

He set to work. He checked the cables to the echo chamber, making sure everything was plugged in properly. After that, he familiarised himself with the control console, which differed in small ways to the one he knew. Lastly, he pulled over a