The Black Lung Captain

by Chris Wooding

  Crake gazed bleakly at the scene from the back seat of the motorised carriage. The cab driver was hunched over on the bench up front, his shoulders squared and a cap pulled down hard over his head, as if he was driving through a thunderstorm. But the night was warm and still. Apart from the rattle of the engine, it was eerily quiet.

  A long, curving gravel drive led away from the walled perimeter and the iron gates that squeaked with rust. The grounds that it passed through were badly kept: the grass was long, the trees overgrown and shaggy. The carriage pulled up outside the hospital. Crake checked his pocket watch - right on time - and got out.

  'Wait for me here, please,' he said to the driver. 'I shan't be long.'

  The driver touched his cap in response, then returned to his previous position and stayed there, unmoving, like some dormant automaton from a science-fiction novel. The man made Crake uneasy. He didn't like the driver's silence, his stillness, the stoic way he went about his job. On another day, it wouldn't have bothered him, but lately he found such small oddities hard to bear. Little things made him angry without reason. Sometimes he'd become over-emotional, and the slightest matter would make him want to weep. Even Plome had commented on it, and taken to avoiding him whenever it was decently possible to do so. Crake, for his part, passed most of his time in the sanctum beneath Plome's house. The longer he stayed there, the less inclined he was to deal with the world outside.

  But sometimes sacrifices were necessary.

  Crake paused for a moment, to arrange himself and marshal his courage. He was heavily bundled up, despite the lack of a chill in the air, and he clutched his coat tightly around him as he entered the hospital reception area. It was brown and dull and smelled faintly of bleach, but it was clean and orderly, which eased Crake's nerves a fraction. He'd always taken comfort in the signs of an efficient civilisation. Banks, theatres and high-class restaurants were a balm to the chaos in his life. At least this place, despite its seedy reputation, looked organised.

  It was quiet at this time of night. A middle-aged nurse sat behind the reception desk, talking to a doctor. Both looked up as he entered.

  'Visiting hours are over, I'm afraid,' said the nurse, once she'd established that he was not obviously maimed in any way. Her tone was sharp, calculated to persuade the listener that there was no point in arguing.

  Crake tried anyway. 'Yes, I'm . . . er . . . I'm afraid I couldn't get here any earlier. It's my uncle Merin. He's very sick, I understand.'

  'I'm sorry, but—' the nurse began, but the doctor overrode her.

  'You must be Mardrew,' he said, walking over to shake Crake's hand. 'He said you were coming. He's very keen to see you.' The doctor turned to the nurse. 'It's alright, I'll take him through.'

  The nurse shook her head and went back to her paperwork. 'Don't know why we bother having visiting hours at all,' she muttered sourly.

  'This way, please,' said the doctor, showing Crake through a swing door. He was a short, thin man in his early thirties, with black hair oiled back close to his scalp and a small, tidy moustache. Crake followed him down a corridor until they were out of earshot of the nurse.

  'You have the money?' the doctor asked him.

  'Yes,' said Crake. And after that, nothing more was said.

  So simple. They were past the nurse and in before Crake had time to think twice. A good thing, too. He felt sure that his deeply ingrained fear of authority would have got the better of him if he'd been forced to stand there and wait. He'd have crumbled under the nurse's gaze and turned back. But the doctor was in the reception, just as Crake's contact said he'd be. All Crake had to do was ask for his uncle Merin. The whole thing had gone like clockwork.

  So why did he feel more scared than before?

  They came across a sign indicating the way to the wards, but the doctor ignored it and went the other way down the corridor. The hospital was sterile and hushed. Nurses padded by, wheeling trollies. Janitors mopped the floors. They passed a hurrying doctor, who exchanged a quick word of greeting with Crake's escort. At any moment, Crake expected someone to challenge him. Surely they could sense he was on forbidden business? Surely it was obvious in his quick, roving gaze and his petrified expression?

  But nobody took any notice.

  Presently, they came to an door marked simply: ACCESS. The doctor checked to make sure nobody was in sight, then pushed it open and led Crake through.

  There was a tight, dim stairwell beyond. They went down one level and through a metal door into another corridor.

  The atmosphere here was less savoury- than the floor above. The walls were grimy, and there were bits of litter in the corners. Electric lights buzzed overhead, their surfaces smeared with oily thumbprints. There was no smell of disinfectant here, only a hint of mould. It was chilly, and Crake was glad of his coat.

  I shouldn't be doing this, he thought to himself. The closer they got to their destination, the more sick and terrified he felt. It hadn't seemed real until he'd got through reception. He'd half-expected to be turned away. But the act of tricking the nurse had committed him. Even though he'd done nothing illegal yet, he felt that it was too late to back out. He looked around nervously, seeking an escape and finding none.

  The doctor walked ahead of him, his polished shoes tapping on the stone floor. Leading him on, silently. They both knew why he was here. Crake despised him for being a witness to his shame.

  How had it come to this? He'd set out with such high hopes, such optimism. He'd met with men who traded in daemonist texts and held fascinating conversations with them about the nature of the Art. He'd acquired rare tomes at great expense and devoured them greedily. For a time he'd felt like he did when he first discovered daemonism at university. He was a repository, ready to be filled with knowledge. In a few short weeks he'd learned more than he had in the last few years.

  But his joy hadn't lasted. He bought book after book but none had contained what he needed. He'd hoped to find a method to extract Bess from the metal suit he'd put her in. If not instructions, then even hints and pointers would have sufficed. But he was disappointed again and again. Plome's credit was not unlimited, and his own money was not sufficient to keep buying valuable, illegal texts. With each book that failed to provide the answers he sought, the stakes got higher, and he found it harder and harder to relax or sleep.

  Things had become strained between him and Plome. Crake hated having to beg him for money that he had no realistic prospect of ever paying back. Plome's constant fretting about his state of mind became tiresome. He began to stay down in the sanctum with Bess, and kept himself occupied by teaching her new commands with his whistle. But Bess had picked up on his mood too, and when she was awake she was fidgety and withdrawn. Almost as if she was scared of him. Angrily, he put her to sleep and left her like that; but the sight of the silent, empty armoured suit was like an accusation.

  The old feeling started to creep back in. That sense of being trapped. Wherever he turned, he was oppressed. There was nowhere he could get any peace. He became too agitated to study, and that made him more agitated. He ransacked his books with increasing desperation for clues on how to proceed. He bought apparatus and did experiments based on hearsay and rumour. Nothing worked. No one could help him.

  But there was Bess, looming hugely in his mind, demanding that he save her.

  He refused to fail. And if none of his learned peers had any advice for him, then he'd damn well have to do it himself. His time on the Ketty Jay had taught him a little about how to handle the underworld, and it was to the underworld he went. He talked to some people, greased a few palms, and all of it led him here.

  Yet, for all that he felt he'd taken matters into his own hands, he never quite felt in control. And now, as he followed in the footsteps of the doctor, he wondered what he'd been thinking.

  It's not too late to turn back, he thought. You don't have to do this.

  But he did. He had to do it for Bess.

  The basement level was mostly u
sed for storage and was deserted. They walked a little way and took another set of steps down. The level below was dirtier than the last, and barely lit at all. There was a deep thrumming noise from somewhere nearby: a massive boiler, vibrating through the walls. Despite the boiler's proximity, it was freezing down here, and it stank of something unpleasant that Crake couldn't identify, something dank and cloying and vile. He could hear rats scurrying in the dark.

  He began to jump at shadows. Each step took him further into a nightmare. If the cab driver was bad, this was worse. What had he got himself into? Where was this doctor taking him? The clean corridors he'd passed through seemed like a distant memory now. Ahead, a ceiling light flickered, turning itself on and off at random. Crake could barely keep still. He desperately wanted to be gone from this place.

  Be strong, he told himself. Don't fail her.

  The doctor stopped in front of a metal door and unlocked it with a key.

  'This is the deal,' he said. 'After we're done here, I lead you out of the front door, past the nurse on reception. I'll meet you at the back entrance at midnight. Half the money on acceptance of the merchandise, half on receipt. Are we understood?'

  'Understood,' said Crake. He could barely force the word out through the dread that took hold of him.

  'I need hardly remind you to be discreet,' said the doctor.

  'No,' he said. 'You needn't.'

  The doctor gave him an uncertain look, noticing his distress. He made no comment. Instead, he opened the door and went through. Crake followed.

  The room was tiled and white and grubby. Three gurneys were positioned against the far wall, three shapes underneath, covered by white cloths. The doctor passed from one to the other, pulling the cloths away.

  Lying there were three little girls, their skin white, eyes staring upward. All of them Bess's age when she died, or thereabouts. Each had a Y-shaped row of stitches, running from shoulders to breastbone to pelvis. So appallingly young and innocent. Crake stared at them, horror constricting his throat. Shame and self-loathing filled him. He reeled and steadied himself against the door frame.

  I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't. . .

  'Well?' said the doctor, indicating the corpses. 'Which one did you want?'

  Twenty-Seven

  Meaningful Conversations — Jez Clears The Air —

  The Happy Amputee — A New Lead - Departures

  Marduk was a cold, bleak and bitter place, even with summer coming on. It was the northernmost of the Nine Duchies, sharing a mountain border to the west with Yortland, which was the only colder place on the continent. Cruel winds blew down from the arctic, off the Poleward Sea. The month of Thresh had begun, heralding the start of the summer, but there was little of summer here.

  Frey and Trinica walked along winding, slushy trails. Beyond the nearby buildings, snow-capped mountains rose hard and black. It was not yet dusk, but the peaks had swallowed the sun and the town of Raggen Crag was in twilight.

  Neither had spoken for a long time. Wrapped in thick hide coats with furred hoods pulled over their heads, they wandered the paths of Raggen Crag without purpose or intention. It was enough, just to walk.

  Lights glowed in the windows of the houses, which had been built in groups, huddled together for warmth. The sound of rumbling industrial boilers could be heard within. The roofs and roads were piled with drifts of dirty snow. Black arctic birds swung overhead, or sat on the heating pipes and puffed up their feathers.

  It was a grim and simple settlement, like many others Frey had visited lately. They must have hit twenty-five towns in the last thirty days, and still Grist eluded them. There were sightings, hints -enough evidence to keep them in the chase - but nothing that had brought them closer to their target.

  Every day, Frey scoured the broadsheets. But there was no sign of any disaster. No doomsday weapon unleashed.

  What was Grist up to? What did he mean to do with the sphere he'd stolen? What was he waiting for?

  If Frey was frustrated, his crew were doubly so. They were tired and bored. None of them cared about this mission the way he did. Nobody wanted to be dragged around a miserable duchy like Marduk while summer was wasting in the south. Pinn was almost permanently drunk, and Malvery had taken to joining him. Harkins was hardly ever seen on the Ketty Jay, he only came on board for brief visits, and even then he was so skittish that Frey could barely get a sensible word out of him. Silo was his usual self. Jez stayed out of everyone's way. Crake and Bess were gone.

  But there was Trinica. At least there was Trinica.

  Having Trinica on board hadn't been easy at first. No matter how much they tried to get on, their history always lay between them. The spectre of their unborn child kept them apart. Neither could forgive the other for that. There were so many sharp edges to their conversations.

  But they persisted, driven by their common cause. Their encounters with Osric Smult and Professor Kraylock had convinced them that they needed each other, if they wanted to find Grist. In the days that followed, they worked well together. Trinica knew people who wouldn't even open the door to Frey. Frey, in turn, knew lowlifes who were beneath Trinica's notice. Trinica had a way with the high-borns; Frey knew how to butter up drunks. Between them they scoured the inns and drinking houses of the remote northern settlements, plumbing the locals for information.

  But there was little information to be had. Grist had disappeared, seemingly without trace.

  As time passed, they got used to each other again. The barbed comments came less often. Conversations were no longer loaded with implications. They were no longer walking on eggshells.

  More and more, Frey found himself forgetting that they were supposed to be enemies. And it seemed Trinica was forgetting too.

  It wasn't all plain sailing. The longer he spent with Trinica, the more he was exposed to her rapid, jagged changes of mood. She was prone to black depressions which made her difficult company. But he learned to ride out her fits of anger and her sullen episodes. Because for every storm there was a period of clear skies and sunlight, where she was suffused with childish joy. or testing him with a wry and wicked wit. For those times, there was little he wouldn't endure.

  This evening she was thoughtful, and there was a kind of quiet sadness to her. He wasn't sure where it had come from, but he'd long learned to stop searching for cause and effect where Trinica was concerned. She was a different woman to the one he'd left behind, but now she was free of that ghoulish make-up he could almost believe the last twelve years had never happened.

  'I'm worried about your crew,' she said suddenly. They were the first words spoken for half an hour.

  He blinked. 'You are?'

  'Aren't you?'

  He thought about that. Worried wasn't exactly the word he'd use. He was aware that the atmosphere aboard the Ketty Jay wasn't good, but he'd assumed it would sort itself out without any interference from him.

  'It's just this whole Grist thing,' he said. 'Once we catch the bastard, they'll be alright.'

  'They won't, Darian. They're coming apart. I know it's mostly my fault, but still—'

  ' Your fault? How's that?'

  She gave him a look, her pale face framed by the furred rim of her hood. 'You must see that they hate me.'

  Darian plucked at the back of his glove. 'Hate is a bit strong,' he said. 'If we held a grudge against everyone who'd ever screwed us over, we'd have to leave the country. It's not like we've never been ripped off before.'

  'Ah,' she said. 'But I'll bet you never invited the thief on board afterwards, though.'

  'That's true. Except once, and that was to kick the shit out of him.'

  She sighed, blowing out a plume of steam. Their feet crunched through the thin crust of old snow that lay on the paths. Two townsmen walked past leading a shaggy beast of burden, which was towing a piece of machinery on a cart. Frey had seen several of the creatures over the past month but he still wasn't exactly sure what they were. Something between a cow and a
ram, he supposed, but since they came buried under a mass of knotted and tangled fur, it was difficult to tell. All he knew was that they were immensely strong and they stank like a mouldy underwear drawer. He vaguely wondered if they were good to eat.

  'Listen,' she said. 'You were never the best at seeing what was in front of you, so I'll explain. Your crew resent me. Not only because I stole from them, but because I'm taking up your time.'

  'You think they're jealous?' he scoffed. 'Trinica, they're not children.'

  'Some of them aren't far off,' she said.

  'S'pose you're right at that.'

  'Darian, they've lost a friend in Crake. Even I can see that, and I never knew him. At times like that, when things are uncertain and times are bad, a crew looks to its captain for guidance and reassurance. But you're not there. You're with me. They can't understand it, and they don't like it. Darian, do any of them even know we were almost married?'

  'No,' he said, uncomfortable. 'I think you're making a bit much of this, though.'

  'No, I'm not. I would have said something weeks ago, but I didn't want to tell you how to run your crew.'

  'I've done alright so far,' he said. He was on the defensive, and it came out snappy.

  'You have. But now you need to do better,' she said. 'Being a captain, it's more than just making good decisions and giving the right orders. It's about trust. You're like the head of a family. They need to trust you, and you need to trust them.'

  'They do trust me!' Frey protested. 'Why do you think they've stuck with me?'

  'It's a testament to their loyalty that they have,' she said. 'But it won't last forever. You're barely talking to your navigator. For what reason, I can't tell, but it's been going on for a month. The rest of your crew don't really understand why they're being dragged through town after town, because you haven't explained to them why it's important to you. And all of them are feeling the loss of Crake, but their captain doesn't appear to care.'

  'I do care!'

  'But they can't see that.'