Frey wasn’t rich. What money he made was usually gambled away or spent on drink or women. Sometimes it was a struggle just to keep craft and crew together. But he was beholden to no one, and that was the way he liked it. Nobody pulled his strings. It was what he told himself whenever money was tight and things looked bad.
At least I’m free, he thought. At least there’s that.
In the murky world of bottom-feeders, Frey could count himself among the larger fishes, simply by dint of smarts. The world was full of morons and victims. Frey was a cut above, and he was comfortable there. He knew his level, and he knew what happened when people overestimated themselves.
But it was one job. Fifty thousand ducats. A life of appalling, obnoxious luxury staring him in the face.
‘Why me?’ he asked as Quail refilled his glass. ‘I must have dealt with you, what, three times?’
‘Yes,’ said Quail, settling again. ‘You sold me a few titbits. Never bought anything.’
‘Never could afford it.’
‘That’s one point in your favour,’ he said. ‘We’re barely acquainted. The scantest of links between us. I couldn’t risk offering this opportunity to most of my clients. My relationship with them is too well known.’ He leaned forwards across the desk, clasping his hands together, meshing metal fingers with flesh. ‘Make no mistake, if this operation goes bad, I don’t know you, and you never heard about those gems from me. I will not allow this to be traced back here. I have to protect myself.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m used to people pretending they don’t know me. Why else?’
‘Because fifty thousand ducats is an absurd amount of money to you and I believe it will keep you loyal. Because you’re too small-time to fence those gems for yourself, and you’re beneath the notice of the Navy and other freebooters alike. And because no one would believe you if you told them I was involved. You’re frankly not a very credible witness.’
Frey searched his face, as if he could divine the thoughts beneath. Quail stared back at him patiently.
‘It’s an easy take, Frey. I know her route. She’ll be following the high ground, hugging the cloud ceiling, staying out of sight. No one’s going to know she’s there but you. You can bring her down over the Hookhollows. Then you pick up the gems, and you fly them to me.’
Frey didn’t dare hope it was true. Was it possible that he was simply in the right place at the right time? That a man like him could have a chance to make a lifetime’s fortune in one swoop? He wracked his memory for ways he might have given Quail offence, some reason why the whispermonger would send him into a trap.
Could Quail be working on someone else’s behalf? Maybe. Frey had certainly made enemies in his time.
But what if he’s not setting you up? Can you really take that chance?
The clammy, nauseous feeling he had at that moment was not unfamiliar to him. He’d felt it many times before, while playing cards. Staring at his opponent over a hand of Rake, a pile of money between them, his instincts screaming at him to fold and walk away. But sometimes the stakes were just too high, the pot too tempting. Sometimes, he ignored his intuition and bet everything. Usually he lost it all and left the table, kicking himself. But sometimes . . .
Sometimes, he won.
‘Tell you what. Throw in some female company, a bed for the night and all the wine we can drink, and you got a deal.’
‘Certainly,’ said Quail. ‘Which lady would you like?’
‘All of them,’ he said. ‘And if you have one who’s particularly tolerant - or just blind - she might see to Pinn, too. I’m gonna need his head straight for flying, and the poor kid’s gonna split his pods if he doesn’t empty them soon.’
Six
The Ghostmoth - Frey’s Idea Of Division - The Ace Of Skulls - Harkins Tests His Courage
In the steep heights of the Hookhollows, where the lowlands of Vardia smashed up against the vast Eastern Plateau, silence reigned. Snow and ice froze tight to the black flanks of the mountains, and not a breath of wind blew. A damp mist hazed the deep places, gathering in crevasses and bleak valleys, and a glowering ceiling of cloud pressed down hard from above, obscuring the peaks and blocking out any sight of open sky. Between sat a layer of clear air, a sandwich of navigable space within which an aircraft might pick its way through the stony maze.
It was isolated and dangerous, but this claustrophobic zone was the best way to cross the Hookhollows unobserved.
A distant drone came floating through the quiet. It steadily rose in volume, swelling and thickening. Around the side of a mountain came a lone, four-winged corvette. A heavily armed Besterfield Ghostmoth.
Lurking in the mist layer, barely a shadow, the Ketty Jay stayed hidden as it passed.
Frey watched the Ghostmoth from the cockpit, its dark outline passing overhead. Crake watched it with him.
‘That’s not the one we’re after, is it?’ he asked, rather hoping it wasn’t.
‘No,’ said Frey. He wouldn’t have taken on a Ghostmoth for any money. He was only concerned that its pilot might spot them and decide to take an interest. You could never be sure. There were a lot of pirates out here. Real pirates, not fairweather criminals like they were.
Nothing sat right with Frey about this whole plan. Nothing except the colossal payoff, anyway.
He’d never liked piracy, and historically he’d displayed a lack of talent in the field. Of the four times he’d tried it, three had been failures. Only once had he successfully downed and robbed a craft, and even then the loot had been meagre and his navigator got stabbed and killed in the process. Twice they’d been forced to flee in the face of superior firepower. On the most recent attempt they’d actually managed to board the craft only to find it had already delivered its cargo. That was the closest his crew had ever come to mutiny, until he hit on the idea of placating them with a night out at the nearest port. The following morning, the incident was forgotten, along with most of their motor skills and their ability to speak.
In general, Frey didn’t like being shot at. Piracy was a risky business, and best left to the professionals. Even Quail’s assurances of an easy take did little to quell his fears.
The Ghostmoth slid out of view, and Frey relaxed. He checked on Harkins and Pinn, hovering a little way above them and to starboard, dim in the mist. The Ketty Jay drifted silently, but for the occasional hiss of stabilising gas-jets as Frey’s hands twitched across the brass-and-chrome dashboard. The cockpit lights had been turned off, leaving the interior gloomy. Jez was sitting at the navigator’s station, studying a map. Crake, who had dropped in uninvited, stood behind the pilot’s seat, wringing his hands. Frey thought about ordering him back to his quarters but couldn’t be bothered with the argument that might ensue.
‘Quail said they’d be coming through here?’ Crake murmured.
‘That’s what he said,’ Frey replied.
‘Makes sense,’ Jez told Crake. ‘You want to get through the Hookhollows without being spotted, you follow the mountains that rise closest to the cloud ceiling. That way you can’t be seen from above and you minimise possible sight-lines from below. Two of the most obvious routes converge on this point.’
Frey turned around in his seat and looked at her. ‘I’m beginning to think that, after many months, I’ve finally found a navigator who actually knows what they’re doing,’ he said.
‘We’re few and far between, Cap’n.’
‘How’s the shoulder?’
‘Fine.’
‘Good. Don’t get shot again. You’re useful.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, with a quirky little grin.
Frey settled back to watching. He’d begun to think that Jez was a lucky find. In the few days she’d been on board, she’d shown herself to be far more efficient and reliable than he’d expected. Competence was by no means a prerequisite to joining the crew of the Ketty Jay, but Jez was head and shoulders above the other navigators Frey had worked with. He suspected that she was accust
omed to better crews than Frey’s mob, but their slapdash technique didn’t seem to bother her. And she was good at what she did. She’d brought them in from Marklin’s Reach with pinpoint accuracy, with only a featureless sea of cloud and a few mountain peaks to plot their position by. Frey had dropped down through the cloud and found himself dead in the middle of the pass they’d selected for their ambush.
She was a smart one. He only hoped she wasn’t too smart.
Perhaps the others hadn’t noticed, but Jez knew something was wrong with this job. He kept catching a glimpse of the question in her eyes. She’d open her mouth as if to say something, then shut it again and look away.
She feels it too, Frey thought. Instinct.
Instinct. Perhaps. Or perhaps she sensed that her captain intended to rip them off good and proper.
He tried to feel bad, but he really couldn’t manage it. After all, you couldn’t be robbed of what you never had. Quail had promised him fifty thousand ducats, not them. Granted, he’d always maintained a system of fair shares for his crew, dividing the booty according to pre-arranged percentages, but these were exceptional circumstances. By which he meant an exceptional amount of money. Too much to share.
It was just this one time, he promised himself. Because after this, he’d never need to work again.
He’d informed the crew that Quail had given them the tip-off in exchange for one thing. There was a chest on board that he wanted. They were to bring it to him. Everything else was theirs for the taking.
Frey had obtained a full description of the chest, and he knew it would be locked tight. Quail had also assured him there were plenty more pickings besides. The crew could loot to their hearts’ content, and everyone would be happy. They didn’t need to know what was inside the chest. They didn’t need to know about the arrangement between Frey and Quail.
But Jez kept giving him that look.
‘I hear something,’ Crake said suddenly.
Frey listened. He was right: a low throb, accompanied by the higher whines of smaller engines. Hard to make out how many.
‘Jez,’ Frey murmured. ‘Ready on the electroheliograph.’
‘Cap’n,’ she said, reaching over to the switch.
‘This is the one, isn’t it?’ Crake asked, squinting through the windglass, trying to catch a glimpse.
‘This is the one,’ Frey said.
The Ace of Skulls slid into the pass, cruising majestically between two broken peaks. Long, blunt-faced and curve-bellied, she had stubs for wings and a tail assembly like an enormous fin. Thrusters pushed her along as she glided through the air, buoyed up with huge tanks of aerium gas. Decals on her flanks displayed her name, printed across a fan of cards. She was a heavy, no-nonsense craft, without frills, solid. Nothing about her gave away the value of the cargo within.
Buzzing alongside, dwarfed in size, were four Swordwings. Frey recognised them by their distinctive conical, down-slanting muzzles and aerodynamic shape. They were fast fighter craft. Nothing exceptional in their design, but in the hands of a good pilot they could be deadly.
‘It’s not exactly minimum escort,’ Crake murmured.
Frey made a distracted noise of agreement. He didn’t like the look of those Swordwings. He’d expected two, not four.
‘Just give me the word,’ Jez said, fingertip hovering over the press-pad of the electroheliograph switch.
Frey stared up at the freighter. It wasn’t too late to listen to the voice that told him to back out of this. The voice that told him to lay his cards down when he knew his hand was beat. The voice of caution.
You could just keep going on as you are, he thought. It’s not a bad life, is it? You’ve got your own craft. You don’t answer to anyone. The whole world’s there for you. Now what’s wrong with that?
What was wrong with it was that he didn’t have fifty thousand ducats. He hadn’t really minded before, but suddenly the lack had become intolerable.
‘Cap’n?’ Jez prompted. ‘Time’s a factor.’
Frey had picked a spot just below the mist layer and in the shadow of a peak, to give them a good view of the pass above. But if he could see the Ace of Skulls, she might see him, and without the element of surprise they’d have no chance.
You know this is too good to be true, Frey. Stuff like this just doesn’t happen to guys like you. Ambition gets people killed.
‘Cap’n?’
‘Do it,’ he said.
Pinn wiped his running nose with the back of his hand and stared at the grey bulk of the Ketty Jay.
‘Come on! What’s taking so long?’ he cried. The need to get up there and shoot something was like a physical pull. His boots tapped against the complicated array of pedals; his gloved fingers flexed on the flight stick. These were the moments he lived for. This was where the action was. And Pinn, as he never tired of telling everyone, was all about action.
The Second Aerium War fizzled out mere days before he had the chance to sign up. Those miserable Sammies called it off just as he was about to get in there and bloody his guns. It was as if they’d intended to spite him personally. As if they were afraid of what would happen when Pinn got into the thick of things.
Well, if the Sammies were too chickenshit to face him in the air, then he’d just take it out on the rest of the world, every chance he got. Having been cheated once, he reasoned it was only his due. A man deserved the opportunity to prove himself.
He snatched up the small, framed ferrotype of his sweetheart Lisinda, that hung on a chain from his dash. The black and white portrait didn’t do her justice. Her long hair was fairer, her innocent, docile eyes more beautiful in his memory.
It had been taken just before he left. He wondered what she was doing now. Perhaps sitting by a window, reading, patiently awaiting his return. Did she sense his thoughts on her? Did she turn her pretty face up to the sky, hoping to see the cloud break and the sun shine through, the glimmer of his wings as he swooped triumphantly in to land? He pictured himself stepping down from the Skylance, Lisinda rushing joyously towards him. He’d sweep her up in his arms and kiss her hard, and tears would run uncontrollably down her face, because her hero had returned after four long years.
His thoughts were interrupted by a series of flashes from a lamp on the Ketty Jay’s back. A coded message from the electroheliograph.
Go.
Pinn whooped and rammed the prothane thrusters to maximum. The Skylance boomed into life and leaped forward, pressing him back in his seat. He stamped down on a pedal, wrenched the stick, and the craft came bursting out of the mist, arcing towards the small flotilla high above. They’d all but passed overhead now, so he came at them from below and behind, hiding in their blind spot. A fierce grin spread across his chubby face as the engines screamed and the craft rattled all around him.
‘This ain’t your lucky day,’ he muttered as he lined his enemy up in his sights. He believed true heroes always said something dry and chilling before they killed anybody. Then he pressed down on his guns.
The pilot of the nearest Swordwing had only just heard the sound of Pinn’s engine when the bullets ripped through the underbelly of his craft. They pierced the prothane tanks and blasted the Swordwing apart in a dirty cloud of flame. Pinn howled with joy, corkscrewed through the fire and burst out of the far side. He craned in his seat to look back, past his port wing, and saw Harkins coming up, machine guns blazing, shredding the rudder of another Swordwing as he shrieked by.
‘Yeah!’ he cried. ‘Nice shooting, you twitchy old freak!’
He hauled the Skylance into a loop, hard enough to make his vision sparkle at the edges, and headed back towards the flotilla. The two remaining Swordwings had broken formation now, taking evasive action. Harkins’ target was coiling its way down to a foggy oblivion, leaving a trail of smoke from its ruined tail. Far below, the Ketty Jay had broken cover and was heading towards the slow bulk of the freighter.
Pinn picked another Swordwing and plunged towards it. He dropped into po
sition on its tail, machine guns spitting a broken row of blazing tracer bullets. The pilot banked hard and rolled, darting neatly out of the way. Pinn raised an eyebrow.
‘Not bad,’ he murmured. ‘This is gonna be fun.’
‘She’s heading for the clouds!’ Jez said.
She was right. The Ace of Skulls had turned her nose up towards the cloud ceiling and was gliding towards it. Visibility would be almost nil in there.
‘I’m on it,’ Frey said, then suddenly yelled, ‘Doc!’
‘What?’ came the bellowed reply through the open doorway of the cockpit.
‘Start hassling the fighters! I’ve got the big fish!’
‘Right-o!’