The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,62
from within the chamber. Half-drawn breaths, quick, desperate gasps.
Crake went cold. He'd heard that sound before.
Throw the lever. Throw the lever and blast that thing back to the aether.
But he didn't. He needed to see. A terrible curiosity drew him. It couldn't be what he thought it was. It was just a trick. It had to be. But he needed to prove that to himself.
He stepped away from the controls and moved around to the front of the echo chamber. Plome was watching him breathlessly from the edge of the room, where he crouched by his own array of control panels.
That sound. That wet, rattling clutch for breath. It couldn't be.
He looked through the porthole.
There was a little girl in the chamber. She was lying on her back, head tilted, staring out at him with an expression of terrified incomprehension. There was blood in her hair, blood on her lips; her white dress was sodden. It welled from slashes down her arms, across her collarbone and scalp. She drew a short, clicking gasp, dragging air into punctured lungs.
His niece.
An involuntary cry of anguish tore from his throat. A flood of sudden weakness threatened to make him faint. He stumbled back from the chamber, vision blurring with tears, then staggered sideways and tripped against one of the thick cables plugged into the echo chamber. There was an fizz and a bright shower of sparks as the cable plug was tugged halfway out of its socket. The sight alarmed him enough to shake him out of his horrified state. He lunged towards it, seized the cable with both hands, and plunged it back into the socket.
There was a snap of wild electricity, and the lights in the sanctum went out.
'Crake!' Plome cried. 'Crake! What's going on?'
It was pitch black, and the temperature had plunged to below freezing. Crake listened to his own frightened breathing, to reassure himself he was still there. He fumbled in the pocket of his coat for matches. He always had matches somewhere on him, for those rare times when he felt the need to smoke.
'Crake!'
'Stay there!' he called. 'Don't leave the controls! That's what it wants!'
Suddenly he remembered the oil lanterns he'd seen in the corner of the room. He lit a match. It illuminated little more than his hands, the steam of his breath, and the curve of the echo chamber. The darkness was thick and unnatural.
'Crake! Crake, speak to me, damn it!'
'I said man the controls!' he shouted.
'Crake!' Plome's voice was distant now, fading. 'Crake, say something!'
'Stay where you are!' Crake yelled. But he heard nothing more.
He walked carefully around the echo chamber and headed across the sanctum in what he hoped was the right direction. He lit a new match from his old one, afraid to let the dark close in for even a moment. The flame seemed unnaturally feeble. He listened, but heard only the sounds of his own terror.
His foot bumped against something, and he leaned down. A tarnished lantern. He grabbed it, and put his match to the wick. The flame caught and swelled, and drove the darkness back. Crake let out a shuddering breath, then stood up and came face to face with Bess.
His hand flew to his chest at the sight of the great metal golem. This can't be right! She can't be here! But when several moments passed and she still hadn't moved, he realised something was different about her. He peered inside her face-grille and saw no light within. She wasn't there. It was only the armoured suit, vacant and immobile. Cables ran from it into the darkness. Back towards the echo chamber.
Just like the night I made that suit come to life.
He turned away from the suit and raised his lantern higher. The light shone on stone pillars, and hinted at arches high above. Crake knew this place. It had been a vast wine cellar, before he made it his own. This was his sanctum. Here, he'd created the sword Frey carried, and the gold tooth in his mouth. Here, he'd created a golem. And here, he'd committed the crime that had destroyed his old life for ever.
This is the daemon's doing, he thought. It's playing with me. But it felt no less real for that.
Shivering with the cold, he moved back towards the echo chamber.
The room was silent. Even the electrical hum of the chamber had quieted. The tap of his boots rang through the freezing cellar.