The Black Lung Captain totkj-2 Page 34

  Sitting behind a desk, writing a letter, was Almore Roke. He was an erect, imperious-looking man with a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard. One eyebrow drooped, giving him an expression that suggested permanent suspicion. He wore a neat suit and silver cufflinks.

  'Who's this?' he demanded, peering at Frey.

  'Captain Darian Frey of the Ketty Jay,' Frey replied. He stepped into the room, and Samandra came with him. 'I hear you used to serve on Harvin Grist's crew.'

  Roke tossed down his pen and sat back in his chair, arms crossed petulantly. 'This again? What of it?'

  'I'm looking for him.'

  'So is she,' Roke said, jutting his chin towards Samandra. 'Why should I care?'

  Roke's accent was a strange mix between the rough, guttural tones of the commoner, and a crisper, fluting aristocratic lilt. A man born poor, now trying to pass himself off as one of the rich. Frey doubted he was fooling anyone.

  'I'm wondering if you have in mind any places he might be,' said Frey. 'Hideouts he once used, familiar haunts, that kind of thing. It's very important that we find him.'

  'Is it? Why?'

  'Because otherwise he might end up killing a lot of people.'

  Samandra stared at him in surprise. 'Excuse me?'

  'That device he's got. We reckon the Awakeners know what it is. And they seem to think it could cost thousands of lives.'

  'I thought it was a power source?' Samandra said.

  'So did we. It's not.'

  Roke was watching their exchange with amusement. 'I know where he is,' Roke said. 'His hideout. If he's gone to ground, he's gone there.'

  'And?'

  'And,' said the businessman, stretching his back, 'I'll tell you after I get an apology from her, and on the condition that my guest and I are released and given safe passage to a port of our choice.'

  'Your guest? The Sammie?'

  'Vulgar term,' said Roke, with a sneer. 'They're a fascinating people, very cultured. A shame the common man can't forgive what's happened in the past.'

  'When did you stop being a common man?' Samandra asked.

  Roke ignored her jab. 'There's no law against associating with Samarlans, last I heard. Our own Earl Hengar was well known for his dalliances. So why am I treated like a criminal?'

  'Because it is illegal to sell them aerium, especially since a lot of folk think they're tooling up a navy to have another go at invading us,' said Samandra. 'And that would make you a traitor. Anyway, you'll be given safe passage when the Navy get here. And you'll be released after you've satisfied our curiosity as to why a man high up in an eminent aerium mining company is so chummy with one of our old enemies from the South.'

  'That's not good enough,' said Roke.

  'Well, it'll have to be.'

  Roke rolled his eyes and looked at Frey. 'Your friend here doesn't grasp the basics of negotiation, does she?'

  'She does seem an inflexible sort,' Frey agreed.

  'Perhaps you're a more reasonable man to deal with?'

  'Hey!' snapped Samandra. 'You're dealing with the Century Knights, not him.'

  'Then I'm afraid we have nothing more to—'

  Roke was interrupted by a rumble that ran through the building, making the walls shudder. Frey listened in alarm as the refinery began to echo with distant groans, shrieks, and eerie wails, as if some enormous metal monster was slowly shaking itself awake.

  'The refinery!' Roke exclaimed. 'They've started it up!'

  'Who?'

  'The workers! Them and their bloody Underground!' Roke sprang out of his chair, agitated. 'They've got inside.' His eyes widened. 'They're going to overload the machines!'

  'That sounds like it'll be a bad thing,' Frey observed carefully.

  'They'll blow us all to pieces!'

  'Right,' said Frey. 'Definitely bad, then.'

  Thirty

  Insurrectionists —Frey Betrays A Trust — Foreigners — The Meaning Of Freedom

  The window overlooking the refinery floor was crowded with bodies. The besuited officials of Gradmuth Operations had emerged in a panic, alarmed by the noise from below. They jostled for space with the mercs, hoping to see what was going on. Frey pushed through the common room to the window and looked down.

  The refinery had come alive. Great rock-chewing machines gnashed their teeth. Vats of viscous liquid had begun to churn. Kilns glowed as they roared into life. There was a furious racket of grinding gears. A thin smoke had begun to rise. Frey saw men running among the equipment, yanking levers, thumping buttons.

  'How did they get in?' someone cried.

  Gunfire rattled outside. The mercs on the gate were engaging the invaders. Frey doubted the miners and factory workers were stupid enough to try a full-frontal assault. Much more likely, they'd got in behind the defences and were overrunning the refinery compound.

  He'd wondered where most of the village had disappeared to. By the sounds of it, they were all here.

  Roke pushed in next to him, with Samandra at his shoulder. At the same time, the overhead lamps died. The refinery was already dim -natural light was shut out - but now it was plunged into darkness, lit only by the fiery red of the awakening furnaces. The scampering figures below became daemonic, mischievous imps racing through the bloody glow.

  'They're sabotaging the refinery! Those bastard muck-scraping ingrates!' Roke said. 'We have to get out of here!'

  'I'm not going down there!' said a bewhiskered and monacled company man. 'There's dozens of them! With guns! We'll be lynched!'

  'Idiot!' Roke said. 'Don't you know what happens if you turn the machines on out of sequence? The kilns will fire up before the coolant starts flowing. The steam pumps will rupture if there's no one to man the valves. This place is going to tear itself apart!'

  The company man went white and started to gibber in a manner that reminded Frey of Harkins at his best. 'But . . . but . . . but ... if they blow up the refinery . . . where will they work? What about their jobs?'

  'Damned Underground insurrectionists!' spluttered one of his fellows. 'Got them so stirred up they don't know which side their bread's buttered!'

  The mercs, who'd overheard the news of the imminent disaster, began jostling for the exit.

  'Hey! You all stay your damn selves here or I'll shoot your cowardly hides!' Samandra yelled.

  There was a boom that made them all jump, and a shower of concrete dust fell from the ceiling. Colden Grudge was standing in the doorway to the common area, his autocannon smoking. Grissom sloped over to stand next to him and shucked back his duster, revealing knives and pistols. Suddenly nobody felt like leaving any more.

  'What can we do?' Samandra asked Roke.

  'Get us out of here!' he said.

  'That's what they want. They'll be waiting for us outside, with overwhelming numbers, and we can't protect all of you. What else?'

  Roke thought for a moment. 'There's a master override switch. It shuts down the refinery in case of emergency. They won't be able to turn it back on without a code, and only the staff know that. I can show you.'

  'Not you,' said Samandra. 'You're staying here. The Navy's going to want a word with you.'

  'I'll take you,' volunteered a young man with oiled blond hair in a neat centre-parting. A brave and gallant-looking sort, too young to know what danger was. Probably eager to get the attention of the beautiful Century Knight.

  Samandra favoured him with a knee-weakening smile. 'Much appreciated, sir.' She turned and began calling out orders. 'Grudge, Jask, with me. Grissom, you stay and guard the staff.'

  'I'm not babysitting this bunch of—' Grissom began to protest, but Frey cut him off.

  'We'll stay,' he said.

  Samandra looked him over suspiciously. Sizing him up in the red darkness.

  'Safer up here. Besides, I'm the only one of my lot that can shoot worth a shit,' he lied. 'And I said I'd look after her.' He thumbed at Trinica.

  'The passenger. Right,' said Samandra. She frowned at him. A you'd better not be
up to something kind of frown. Frey put on his most winning grin.

  'Tick-tock, Samandra!' said Grissom, by the door.

  'Fine,' she said. 'I can't spare a Knight anyway. Don't even think about going anywhere, though. You'd never make it to your aircraft.'

  'Hey,' said Frey, raising his hands. 'Nobody wants to keep me alive more than I do.'

  Samandra gave him one last, uncertain look. 'Weapons are on the table,' she said, pointing to the shotguns and pistols that had been brought up by the mercs. 'Good luck.' Then she was heading towards the exit, herding their enthusiastic young guide ahead of her, shouting for the mercs to back them up.

  Frey waited till they were gone and said, 'Did you hear that, Jez?'

  'Certainly did, Cap'n,' said his navigator, in his ear. 'Meet you on the roof of the refinery in ten minutes?'

  'Ten minutes,' he said. He turned to Malvery, who'd scooped up a shotgun and was admiring it. 'Doc, pull that Sammie out of there,' he said, pointing at the door where Jask had stood.

  'That's my guest!' Roke protested. 'You'd better not be—'

  Til make you a deal, Roke,' Frey interrupted him. He picked up a pistol, checked it, and began loading it. New model. Pristine condition. Very nice. 'I get you and the Sammie out of here, you tell me where Grist is. Simple, right?'

  'Agreed,' said Roke, without hesitation. 'There's a port nearby where I can arrange transport for my guest and I. Take us there and I'll tell you.'

  'How do we get to the roof?'

  'The roof?' Roke thought for a moment. 'The access door is locked and the head caretaker isn't here. No idea where the key is. We'll have to take the elevator.' He motioned at the window. 'Out there.'

  There was a loud bang from below, and several of the window squares shattered. One of the company men toppled backwards, his head and chest a mess of blood and torn skin. The others began to shriek and scramble over each other in an attempt to get away.

  'Probably shouldn't be standing next to the window, huh?' Frey muttered to himself, as he pulled Roke aside. Malvery emerged with the Samarlan. Trinica and Silo joined them as the company men hightailed it back to their offices and locked the doors. Silo was glaring with naked hatred at the Samarlan. The very sight of the man inflamed him. The Samarlan returned his gaze with a cool disdain.

  Frey took him aside. 'I know, Silo, I know. But we have to find Grist.'

  'Grist! Grist!' he snarled. 'What's so important, Cap'n? What you got to prove that's so damn important?'

  Frey blinked in surprise. 'I made a mistake, and I'm trying to make it right,' he said.

  Silo stared over his shoulder at the Samarlan, nostrils flaring. His fist was clenched and his arm trembled. He looked like he wanted to spring on Roke's 'guest' and beat him bloody.

  'Can you deal with it? For me?' Frey asked. 'You don't have to speak to him. Just don't kill him or anything. Please?'

  Silo's mouth was pressed tight, as if tasting something bitter. 'I'll do what you ask, Cap'n,' he said. 'But this ain't right. I want you knowin' that. Ain't right.' He hefted his shotgun and pumped the lever-action handle to chamber a round. 'Let's go.'

  The refinery floor was like something out of a nightmare. A sea of roaring metal noise punctuated by the shrieking and grinding of gears. Black pistons pumped up and down, shadows lunging against the gory glow of the furnace light. Unoiled mechanisms leaked wisps of acrid smoke. There was a haze in the air that stank of chemicals.

  Frey, Trinica, Malvery and Silo hurried down the aisles between the looming machines, weapons ready, alert for danger. Roke and the Samarlan followed, with Roke providing occasional directions. The Samarlan was frustratingly slow; he seemed reluctant to run, and never accelerated above a speedy walk. Malvery was looking distinctly nauseous, still suffering the effects of the previous night. Silo looked like he wanted to murder someone.

  They could hear gunshots somewhere ahead of them, and the thumping of Grudge's autocannon. Between the high, echoing roof and the cacophony all around them, it was hard to pick out their location. Frey was as keen to avoid the Century Knights as he was to avoid the armed workers who were sabotaging the refinery. He didn't much want to see the look on Samandra Bree's face when she caught him stealing off with her prisoners.

  Frey reached a corner and saw that the coast was clear. He looked back. Once again, the Samarlan was lagging behind, moving with quick steps but not actually breaking into anything that might be described as a jog, let alone a run.

  'Will you bleedin' well hurry?' Frey said.

  The Samarlan made no effort to do so. Malvery, who was standing nearby, grabbed his arm and pulled him forward with a rough tug. 'Quicken up, eh?'

  The Samarlan threw him off angrily, yellow eyes wide in outrage. He began to berate Malvery in his own language: a hissing, harsh tongue that made him sound like a furious snake. Then, realising that Malvery didn't understand him or care, he rounded on Silo, who was standing nearby. He unleashed a tirade, pointing at Malvery and then at Silo. Frey had no idea what was being said, but the Samarlan seemed to be indicating that Silo should have intervened.

  Frey had had enough by this point. 'Tell your friend to shut up,' he said to Roke, 'or I'll break his teeth.'

  Roke went over and spoke to the Samarlan in his own tongue. Frey looked around anxiously. This was no place for temper tantrums. That Sammie was trying his patience.

  The Samarlan calmed, finishing with a few gestures at Silo. Silo hadn't spoken the entire time. He turned away with barely suppressed rage.

  'I'm sorry,' said Roke, as he returned. 'He's a Samarlan from the noble caste. They don't run in public. And they certainly don't get touched.'

  'They don't run?'' Frey almost choked in disbelief. 'Has anyone explained to him that he's going to be lynched if he doesn't? Does he even know that everyone who's being shot and killed out there is dying on his account?'

  Roke gave Frey an apologetic look. 'Every day since they're born, they're attended to by slaves. They live a life of ridiculous luxury. Manners and etiquette are life and death to someone like him. He won't run. It'd be a terrible indignity. He'd rather die.'

  'Would he run faster with my toe up his arse?'

  'You get us both out, Frey. That's the deal,' Roke reminded him sternly.

  Frey rolled his eyes and swore. 'Come on, then.'

  They rounded the corner and hurried along a row of vats. Gas flames roared at their bases. Some of them were beginning to bubble. Viscous liquid oozed over the rims and splattered on the floor. The stench made Frey light-headed.

  They were halfway along the row when three men ran into view at the far end, carrying shotguns. They were unkempt figures, wearing overalls, their faces lit from below by the gas flames. They paused at the sight of Frey and his group, perhaps thinking that they were on the same side; then one of them raised his shotgun and screamed, 'Sammie!' Even in the half-light, the Samarlan's skin marked him out immediately.

  The moment of hesitation was not shared by Frey and his companions. They got off their first volley before the refinery workers even had a chance to shoot. But their accuracy was less impressive than their speed. The workers, alarmed at finding themselves suddenly under fire, shot wildly in the vague direction of their targets, then threw themselves into cover. Frey's group did the same, squeezing into the gaps between the vats.

  The Sammie just stood there in the aisle, back straight, an imperious look on his face. Bullets whined through the air around him. He faced them without fear.

  'What in blazing shit is that idiot doing?' Frey cried. Presumably, the Samarlan was too dignified to cram himself into the baking hot blackness with the rest of them. 'Malvery, get him out of there!'

  Malvery lunged from hiding, grabbed the Samarlan and pulled him into cover. When he began to hiss again, Malvery whacked his head against the side of a vat. He was too shocked to say anything after that.

  Frey checked on Trinica, who was pressed up against him in a not entirely unpleasant fashion, then concen
trated on dealing with their attackers. These men weren't gunfighters. They were attempting to use the vats as cover, but when they leaned out to fire, they took far too long to aim. That, and they tended to lean out at roughly regular intervals, letting Frey predict when and where they'd appear so he could line up his shots. Easy pickings.

  He clipped one with a bullet in the shoulder, sending him sprawling out into the open where Silo finished him off. Malvery hit another man clean in the face. The last worker was understandably distressed by the sight, and ran away, shouting, 'Sammie! Sammie!'

  Frey breathed a sigh of relief, then yelped as burning hot liquid bubbled up and spilled from the vat overhead, splashing his leg. He danced out into the aisle, beating at himself. The others emerged in a more controlled fashion.

  They set off again in a different direction. The Samarlan began snapping at Silo as they went. It was making Frey angry on his friend's behalf. Silo suffered the abuse with a kind of furious submission. He wasn't making any attempt to defend himself while the Samarlan chewed him out.

  'What's he saying?' he demanded of Roke.

  'He's just confused as to why there's a Murthian here,' Roke replied.

  'No, he's not,' said Trinica. 'He's calling your engineer all kinds of names, most of which involve his mother, and he's doing it in the mode they use to talk to slaves and animals.' She listened for a moment. 'Right now he wants to know why Silo didn't try to shield him from the bullets.'

  Frey had forgotten that Trinica spoke Samarlan. He was almost as surprised as Roke.

  'Er . . .' said Roke. 'You get us both out unharmed if you want to know where Grist is,' he reminded Frey.

  Frey shook his head and cursed. 'You tell that bastard that we're in Vardia now, and Silo's no slave.' Roke dropped back to do so. Frey went over to Silo, shoving the Samarlan aside on his way. The Samarlan squawked in outrage. Roke did his best to calm him.

  Silo was looking at the floor, every muscle tense. Frey thought about putting an arm on his shoulder, then thought better of it. 'Silo . . .'