Six

Frey under Fire – A Casualty – Another Side to Silo – Bayonets

Frey was just getting the hang of jumping between carriages when the guards started shooting at him.

The first one caught him by surprise. He didn’t know anyone was there until he heard a gunshot and felt something whip past him, dragging a searing trail of pain along the side of his neck. He whirled, one hand clutched to the wound. It stung, but the hand came away dry. Just a graze.

There was a Dakkadian at the other end of the carriage, squat, pale and blond, with the narrow eyes and broad features of his kind. He’d climbed on to the roof and was fighting to steady himself against the wind and the rocking of the train. He aimed another shot at Frey, but swayed at the last moment and fired wild. Frey, whose balance was steadier, drew his revolver. He sighted and shot his target in the chest. The guard spun and disappeared beneath the carriages, swallowed by the roaring metal monster beneath their feet.

‘Son of a bitch,’ Frey muttered sourly to himself, putting his hand to his neck again. The graze was starting to seep. He didn’t dare think about how close he’d come to death that time.

He forged on up the train. He wasn’t far from the engine carriage now. Ashua and Silo were still chasing down the final enemy Rattletrap in the distance, their wheels kicking up dust. The sharp sound of gunfire drifted over to him.

He still saw no sign of Jez’s Rattletrap, but he was no longer worried about it. Through the ceiling vents, he’d heard some kind of commotion aboard the train. Men were fleeing from the rear carriages towards the front, howling. He didn’t need to be able to understand them to guess the cause. He recognised the wild fear of someone who’d just come face to face with the impossible.

That meant only one thing. Somehow, Bess was on board.

He took a run-up to jump for the next carriage, his confidence growing. Maybe they would take this train down after all. The hot, dry wind opposed him, plucking at his clothes, a hundred faint hands flurrying for a grip.

Just as he reached the gap between the carriages, a head poked up between them. A Sammie, his features handsome and sharp, skin black as oil. Frey saw him far too late to check his stride. He jumped over the Sammie’s head, but the man threw up an arm to protect himself, and it caught Frey’s foot. Frey flailed in the air and slammed down hard on the roof of the far carriage, his pistol skidding out of his grip and off the side. Pain exploded through him as the mass of bruises on his ribs received sudden reinforcements.

He tried to breathe and found that he couldn’t. Winded and gasping, he rolled on to his back, and saw another guard, this one Dakkadian, climbing up on to the roof next to him. Panicking, he fumbled for the second pistol that was stuffed in his belt, yanked it free, and thrust it into the surprised guard’s face. He pulled the trigger, and flinched as he was spattered with blood.

His lungs still wouldn’t suck in the air he needed. He got his feet under him and began to rise, drawing his cutlass with his off-hand as he did so. But he stopped halfway, still in a crouch. He was already too late. The Sammie had a pistol levelled at him, from a distance of no more than a couple of metres. Dead to rights.

A heartbeat passed, and it seemed to last an age. The world sharpened to a point. Frey took in every detail of the man who was about to kill him. The elegant, almost feminine features. Long, black hair, gathered in a queue and decorated with a complex hairpiece of silver filigree. The wonderfully worked blue silk coat, light as air, that hung down to his knees. His brocaded shirt. His beautiful pistol, worked with silver intaglios along its length.

Then the Sammie fired, and Frey’s hand moved. It was not by his will; it was pulled by the cutlass, which operated with a mind of its own. There was a spark, and the whine of a ricochet.

The Sammie stared at him, unable to understand why his bullet hadn’t found its mark. Frey didn’t give him time for a second chance. He straightened and shot his enemy through the forehead.

It took him a few more moments to get his breath back. He tipped his cutlass and examined it for damage, but he knew there wouldn’t be any. He’d barely even felt the jolt of the bullet up his arm. This was a daemon-thralled blade, and it handled itself better than he ever could.

That’s another drink I owe Crake.

He checked on Ashua and Silo. They still hadn’t managed to take care of the Rattletrap, and now they seemed to be chasing it back towards the train. In the next carriage along was the remaining autocannon, patiently waiting for its targets to stray within range.

Time to do something about that, he thought.

‘He’s heading for the train!’ Malvery called.

Silo swore in Murthian. Malvery didn’t understand the meaning, but he heard the disgust and hate in his voice. It surprised him. Silo wasn’t one for emotional outbursts, as far as the doctor could tell, but he was plenty mad about something.

The last Dak Rattletrap was proving to be a colossal pain in the arse. The driver was nothing less than incredible. Somehow, he’d managed to keep ahead of his pursuers while they chased him all over, and neither Pinn nor Malvery had been able to take him down with their gatlings.

A lucky shot from Pinn had dealt with the Rattletrap’s gunner, at least. He was sprawled across the back of the vehicle, tangled up in the roll cage. But despite Silo and Ashua’s best efforts to keep them away from the train, the Daks had given them the slip. A sudden turn, a burst of speed, and now they were on their way back towards their mates with the autocannon.

Malvery and Pinn were doing their best to make sure they didn’t get there, but the driver was a slippery bastard. He dodged and weaved, never keeping a straight line long enough to be pinned down, never coming close enough for an easy shot. With all the jolting, the dust and the general inaccuracy of the gatling guns, the best that Malvery could do was catch the Rattletrap with a bullet or two amid the spray.

The Dak on the passenger side was shooting out between the seats while his companion concentrated on driving. Under the circumstances, his chances of hitting anything were close to zero.

Not close enough, as it turned out.

Malvery only noticed Pinn had been shot when the chubby pilot suddenly stopped firing his gatling. Malvery looked over at the other Rattletrap, which was speeding along to their right. Pinn was swaying slightly, his face grey and slack, wearing a faraway expression. Then he slumped against the side of the roll cage and went down like a sack of potatoes.

Malvery felt something cold clutch at him. Ashua hit the brakes, and suddenly their Rattletrap was falling behind while Silo and Malvery tore on towards the train.

‘Silo! Oi, Silo, get us back there! Pinn’s hurt!’

Silo didn’t reply. He was fixed on the vehicle ahead of him, his jaw set.

‘Silo! He’s been bloody shot! Get me back there!’ Malvery demanded.

‘Just shoot your damn gun, Doc!’ Silo snapped. ‘Ain’t nothin’ you can do that girl or Harkins can’t. We gonna go back after we done this feller.’

His shoulders were tensed and he boiled on the edge of fury. Malvery had only seen him like this once before. Then, they’d been forced to escort a Sammie through a factory full of rioting workers. Silo had ended up throwing the Sammie off a roof.

Malvery tutted and shook his head in resignation. He ought to be back there looking after that lad. Pinn might have the brains of a plank but he was a mate, and he didn’t deserve to get shot. The choice was out of his hands, though. Most choices were out of his hands. Had been ever since he started drinking. Best a man could do was go with it, and take what comes.

Silo was right, anyway. There wasn’t a lot he could do for Pinn until they got back to the Ketty Jay. Harkins had been in the Navy; he knew how to staunch a wound, if he didn’t faint first. No sense getting worked up over what you couldn’t change. He put his thoughts aside, and set himself to the gatling.

The train loomed closer now, cutting across their path in a dirty slanted line. The autocannon near the rear end wasn’t firing any more – in fact, it wasn’t even there any more – but Malvery didn’t have the time or inclination to wonder why. He just wanted to pop that bugger in the Rattletrap so Silo would turn around.

The explosions started up again. Malvery shrank back as dirt showered his face. Damn it all, he was getting sick of being bombarded like this. Now it was twice as hard to shoot. He gritted his teeth and leaned into the shuddering gatling, trying to ignore the blasts and the jerking and the jouncing.

He caught sight of the Cap’n. Frey was up on top of the carriage, above the remaining autocannon. He was crouching by the roof vent, fiddling with something.

What’s he up to?

Then Malvery figured it out. He was striking a match. As Malvery watched, the Cap’n lifted something and dropped it through the vent.

Malvery grinned.

The dynamite didn’t provide the spectacular explosion he’d imagined, but that didn’t matter. The invisible concussion wave was lethal enough. The guards were flung everywhere, broken upon the barricades or pulverised against the walls. The autocannon went silent.

The unexpected loss of covering fire distracted the Dakkadian driver, and he stopped swerving back and forth. It was only for a moment, but it was enough for Malvery, who’d seen it coming, to line up his shot. He pressed down the trigger and a hail of bullets chewed through the buggy. Driver and passenger jerked and spasmed. The buggy swerved to the left and slowly rolled to a halt, its occupants limp in their seats.

Silo pulled up, staring at the dead men. Their faces were mercifully covered by their masks and goggles. The train passed them by and rumbled away. When Silo showed no sign of moving, Malvery laid a hand on his shoulder. He swung around, his eyes full of rage, and half-turned in his seat as if he was about to lunge.

Malvery met his gaze calmly. He didn’t know what had got the engineer so worked up, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t a man who was easily threatened.

‘Mate,’ he said. ‘We got him. Take me back to Pinn.’

The anger gradually died in Silo’s eyes. He gave a quick nod, slid back into his seat, and swung the Rattletrap around.

Frey climbed down the ladder to the engine carriage. Below him, the rails blurred past beneath the pounding train.

He stepped off the ladder and peered through the doorway behind him, which led into the autocannon carriage. The last threads of smoke were still being chased around the wreckage by the wind. There was a sharp, metallic scent of explosives and blood. Dead men lay scattered about. One was a Sammie, his arm dangling over a barricade, swinging loosely with the rhythm of the train.

Frey surveyed the corpses. A lot of lives lost for the sake of a heist. He wasn’t often as messy as this. He usually tried to keep casualties to a minimum, and most of the people he shot were scumbags who pretty much deserved it anyway. Killing dozens of guards just to get some old relic would have caused him a twinge of conscience in Vardia. He probably wouldn’t have taken the job on in the first place, unless he could do it without piling up bodies.

But this was Samarla, and these were Daks and Sammies, so he didn’t feel anything at all.

Further down the train, he could hear gunshots and the sound of tearing metal. Bess was getting closer now. She’d almost blitzed her way through the entire train.

Frey turned his attention to the engine carriage. The door was thick metal and securely locked, but the handle was just the right shape to wedge a stick of dynamite into. Frey lit the fuse, took cover in the opposite carriage, and blew the door open.

‘You in there!’ he shouted. ‘I’m coming in, and anyone I find in there is gonna get shot. Show yourselves now, and you won’t get hurt!’

There was no sign that anyone heard. Instead, a bloodied and confused Dakkadian guard stumbled in through the door behind him, at the far end of the autocannon carriage. He stared dumbly at the carnage until Frey fired a couple of shots, and the guard disappeared back through the door. When he didn’t return, Frey guessed he’d jumped off the side. It seemed the option of choice for many guards after they’d had an eyeful of Bess.

The door of the engine carriage was swinging loosely back and forth. With his pistol in his right hand and his cutlass in his left, he stepped across the gap between the carriages and carefully pushed it open with his foot.

The room beyond was cramped, stifling and dim. Sunlight shone in through narrow vents on the walls, but it seemed to cut through the gloom rather than dispersing it. It fell on to a bank of gauges and valves valves which made up the far wall, limning the chrome in sharp curves of focused brightness. There was no sign of anyone within.

He took a step inside. ‘I know you’re in here,’ he said. ‘Don’t make me—’

His senses warned him of the man behind the door a moment before it was kicked shut. He wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way, but he had time to brace himself. Instead of knocking him back through the doorway to fall between the carriages, the door bounced off his shoulder and sent him staggering sideways into the dim chamber. Before he could recover he heard a high yell, and saw a Dak charging him with a rifle, its end fixed with a double-bladed bayonet aimed at his belly.

His cutlass reacted before he did. It swept up, bringing his hand with it, and knocked the bayonet aside. The rifle discharged with a loud crack, and the Dak cannoned into Frey.

Frey was slammed up against the wall, the Dak’s snarling face inches from his. His instincts took over, and he headbutted the guard square in the nose. The Dak stumbled backwards, one hand going to his face. Frey got a fistful of his hair and ran him head-first into the metal wall. He didn’t get up after that.

Frey stared at the unconscious man on the ground, panting. As he did so, something welled up within him, like blood from a wound, something hot and ugly and overwhelming. He gave a strangled cry and kicked the guard in the ribs. And then, as if that had opened him up to the flood, he kicked him again and again.

‘You rot-sucking bastard son of a whore!’ he shouted, punctuating his insults with savage blows. His target didn’t flinch. Blood was trickling from his ear. The sight of it dried Frey’s anger.

The man was dead. He’d been dead before Frey had even starting kicking him. All this was pointless.

He leaned back against the wall of the chamber, catching his breath, listening to the muffled rattle of the train, the hiss and tick of pipes and gauges. He felt hot, sudden tears of fright coming. His face twisted and almost started to bawl, but he forced the tears back with a grimace and wiped his glistening eyes.

No. Unacceptable. That wasn’t what a man of his reputation was meant to do. So what if he nearly got impaled by a bayonet? Just another lucky escape for Captain Darian Frey. Laugh it off and keep going.

He pulled up his shirt and stared at the jagged brown scars on his abdomen. There’d been another time, years ago, when he hadn’t been so lucky. Another bayonet, with another Dak behind it, that one just a stupid kid barely old enough to shave.

He’d had a different crew back then. Kenham and Jodd, an ugly pair of bruisers. Martley, the carrot-topped engineer with way too much energy. Rabby, who always wanted to agree with you no matter what.

He hadn’t much liked any of them. They’d only really been passengers on his own personal mission to get himself killed during the Second Aerium War. The Daks hadn’t managed to kill him, in the end, but they killed everyone else. His entire crew butchered. All his fault.

But he had a new crew now, and they were not the same. They were his friends.

What if it happens again? he thought. What if I get them all killed?

Just the thought of it sapped the strength from him. He slid down the wall and sat staring at the dead guard. He felt like he’d been emptied out.

But he was too close to victory over the iron beast to stay still for long. The urge to end this drove him back to his feet. In the corner, rungs led to a higher level. He took them, and found himself in the control chamber. Slatted windows provided a view of the desert all around. A bank of brass levers and dials faced him. There was nobody here. The Dak he’d just brained must have been the driver.

It didn’t take a genius to work out which levers to pull to stop the train. Frey let off speed, hauled the brake, and held on. The massive train began to slow to a stop, and all Frey could hear was the ascending screech of the brakes, louder and louder like madness.