— and came face to face with the Wolverine, coming the other way. He’d swung right into its path, and was dead in its sights. His stomach plunged with the inevitable certainty of what would come next. The Wolverine opened fire-
— and exploded, ripped apart by gunfire from above. Harkins just stared as the heavy fighter blew to pieces in a belch of dirty flame, and a fighter craft went plunging past.
‘Waaaaa-hooo!’
‘Pinn?’ Harkins almost screamed.
‘Who else, you twitchy old freak?’
Harkins’ brain refused to process what he was hearing. He flew away from the barque on automatic, out of range of the frigate. Who was this talking in his ear? Was it some trick of the daemon-thralled earcuff, channelling emanations from beyond the grave? He’d never trusted those damned things.
‘But. . but. .’
‘But. . but. .’ Pinn mimicked cruelly. ‘Thought it was you. I’d recognise your flying anywhere.’
‘Why weren’t you wearing your earcuff?!’ It was the only thing Harkins could think of to say.
‘Just put it in now,’ said Pinn. ‘Why, what’s up?’
‘I thought I killed you, that’s what’s up!’
Pinn howled with laughter. Harkins felt himself redden. He checked around himself and saw that the pursuit had fallen away. The pilots on his tail had been scared off by the artillery or by the prospect of an even fight. Probably mercs, then. The faithful wouldn’t have given up so easily.
Now that he wasn’t shooting, he was anonymous once again. He tried to find Pinn among the frigates in the rain. ‘I shot down your Skylance!’ he said, still trying to make sense of it all.
‘That wasn’t me in there!’ Pinn crowed. ‘You think you’d have got me? The Awakeners stole my craft and gave it to someone else. They gave me some old piece of shit instead, but I can still. .’ He tailed off as the penny finally dropped. ‘You shot down my Skylance?’ he squawked.
‘I thought you were flying it,’ said Harkins, in his defence.
‘You thought. . you thought what?. . You. . ggnnaaaRRRGHHHH!’
Harkins felt a smile spread over his face as Pinn degenerated into incoherent animal noises of rage. He’d never heard Pinn so angry. And it was all on his account.
Well. That was a turn up for the books.
Pinn came up on his wing. He was flying a Linfordby Warrior, a pre-war fighter that had been ahead of its time but had been superseded by other models since. If Harkins looked closely, he thought he could see Pinn thrashing about in the cockpit, waving his arms and hitting the dashboard.
‘You alright, Pinn?’ he asked cheerily. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have joined up with the Awakeners after all.’
Pinn fixed him with a deadly glare across the gap between them. Then suddenly, his tone changed, his anger forgotten. ‘Wait, wait!’ he said. ‘Where’s the Cap’n?’
‘Cap’n’s gone,’ said Harkins. ‘North, to Yortland.’
‘He’s gone?’
‘Left not long ago.’
‘We gotta catch him up!’ said Pinn. ‘He might come within range of these ear thingies if we throttle it!’
‘Err. .’ said Harkins, half his mind on flying. ‘Why?’
‘Cause I think I know how to save the Coalition!’ he said. ‘Follow me! Artis Pinn, Heeero of the SkiiiEEEEEES!’
He banked his Warrior and belted off north, away from the fleet. Harkins, bewildered and full of excitement, could do nothing but go after him. Save the Coalition? However ridiculous his plan, if there was even a chance it had merit, he had to see it through.
It was only once he was far from Thesk that he realised he’d somehow survived his suicide mission.
Thirty-Nine
North — Crund’s Message — Responsibility — The Ace of Skulls
Frey listened to the steady exhalation of the Ketty Jay’s thrusters, the hum of her aerium engine, the creaking of her bulkheads. This is all I need, he said to himself. I have everything I want right here.
The words rang hollow in his mind, so he said them again to convince himself. Once, he wouldn’t have needed convincing. Once he’d believed only Darian Frey mattered in the world, and he was content with that.
Maybe, with enough effort, he might believe it again.
Silo stood in the doorway of the cockpit, leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed and head down. He hadn’t said a word since they left. Frey wished he’d go away, back to the engine room where he spent most of his time. He felt judged. The Murthian’s presence reminded him that he’d had a crew once. It was something he desperately needed to forget.
He gazed out with dull eyes at the cloudy morning. The storm was behind them now; the skies were calm and sunless. Less than half an hour ago, he’d been at the end of a rope. This particular day seemed a poor reward for survival, but he’d take what he could get.
Survival. That was what it was all about now. Survival, and nothing more.
Yortland would suit his mood: icy, empty and cruel, a hard place populated by hard people. He had a vague plan to track down Ugrik, the batshit insane son of the High Clan Chief who’d helped them find the Azryx city in Samarla a few months back. Ugrik ought to be able to set him up with some work. After that, well, he’d do what he’d always done. He’d get by.
Once Vardia was in the Awakeners’ hands, Yortland would be the only safe place left. No point heading for Thace; even if they let him in, it would be first on the invasion list once the Sammies got the aerium they craved. Maybe he’d make the run to New Vardia if the Great Storm Belt wasn’t too bad. He’d find himself a quiet place with a game of Rake and a few suckers to fleece. That’d do him.
Trinica. . Well, he wouldn’t think of Trinica. She was lost in some hell where he couldn’t reach her, and that was all there was to it. It took a lot for Frey to admit he was beaten, but that was the fact of the matter. Suck it up and move on.
There’d been a time when he had no aspirations and no possibility of disappointment, but these past few years he’d taken to fooling himself with delusions of grandeur and the pursuit of fame, riches and love. People said it was better to try and fail than to never try, but those people obviously hadn’t failed hard enough. Hope had raised him higher than he’d ever have believed possible, but the fall from there was crippling.
You’ll find another crew, he told himself. There’ll be other women.
He said the words again in his head, to convince himself.
Silo, by the bulkhead, stirred and straightened. ‘You’re gonna want to hear this, Cap’n.’
‘Hear what?’ said Frey, who couldn’t hear anything outside of the workings of the Ketty Jay.
Silo walked over, pulled the silver earcuff from his ear and held it out. Frey looked from the earcuff to his first mate and back again.
‘Took it off the dash,’ said Silo by way of explanation. ‘Seemed you weren’t usin’ it.’
Frey was angered, for no reason he could understand. Silo had been listening for the voices of the crew as they departed, drawing out the connection to the very last. He wanted to know how they were faring. But the anger lasted only a moment before it was washed away by guilt. Frey knew how much it had cost Silo to come with him, how much faith and loyalty this man had shown by leaving the others behind. If Frey had been capable of love right then, he’d have loved him for that.
With some trepidation, he took the earcuff and clipped it on to his ear.
‘-nyone listening? Cap’n? Can you hear us?’
‘Oi! Cap’n!’
‘It doesn’t make it go further if you shout louder, you quarter-wit!’