be fine,’ Malvery said again.
Pinn fidgeted and adjusted his genitals inside his trousers. He was dressed in dock worker’s overalls, as were his companions, with his regular clothes beneath them. It would be necessary to change in a hurry later. Until then, exertion and multiple layers had left him sweltering. ‘When can we get on with it? My pods are dripping.’
The others ignored him. He smoked a roll-up resentfully as they observed the activity aboard. The palette, once empty, was lifted off the Delirium Trigger by the crane and returned to the elevated hangar deck, where more crates were loaded on.
‘Right-o,’ said Malvery. ‘Let’s head down there. Crake, keep your mouth shut. Nobody’s gonna believe you’re a docker with that accent. Pinn . . . just keep your mouth shut.’
Pinn made a face and spat on the ground.
‘Now, the Cap’n wants this to go like clockwork,’ Malvery said. ‘We all know there’s bugger all chance of that, so let’s just try not to get ourselves killed, and we’ll all be having a drink and a laugh about this by dawn.’
They made their way back across the busy dock, weaving between piles of chests and netting and screeching machinery. Huge cogs turned; cage-lifts rattled up and down from the lower hangar decks. Cranes swung overhead, and shouts echoed round the iron girders of the roof, where squadrons of pigeons roosted and shat. A massive freighter was easing in on the far side of the hangar, its aerium tanks keeping it weightless, nudging into place with its gas-jets.
Posing as dock workers, the three imposters were invisible in the chaos. They picked some cargo from a stack of netted crates and barrels that were being loaded onto the Delirium Trigger, and made their way towards the huge palette that was chained to the crane arm. The cargo had been piled high on the palette by now. They carried their loads on and went around to the far side of the palette, where they couldn’t be seen by the workers on the dock. There, they began unlashing a group of crates, rearranging them to make a space.
Another docker rounded the corner, carrying a heavy-looking chest. Malvery, Pinn and Crake did their best to look focused and industrious. The docker - a grizzled, burly man with salt-and-pepper hair - watched them in puzzlement for a moment, then decided that whatever they were doing wasn’t interesting enough to comment on. He put down the chest, secured it with some netting and left.
Once they’d dug out a space, they checked the coast was clear and crammed in. Then they stacked their own crates in front of it, sealing themselves inside.
Their timing was perfect. No sooner had they hushed each other to silence than a steam-whistle blew. They heard the footsteps of dock workers beyond their hiding place, evacuating the palette, and then, with a lurch, it began to lift.
Malvery had to steady the unsecured crates in front of them, for fear of being buried; but the crane moved slowly and the palette was heavy enough to be stable. Though the crates made slight and distressing shifts, nothing moved far enough to fall. Tucked in their little corner, they felt themselves transported across the gap between the hangar deck and the deck of the Delirium Trigger.
Crake found himself thinking that this must be how a mouse felt. Hiding in the dark, at the mercy of the world, frightened by every unknown sound. Spit and blood, he hated this. He didn’t have it in him to be a stowaway. He was too afraid of getting caught.
But Bess was aboard. He was committed now. He’d committed her.
Why did you do it? Why did you agree to this?
He agreed to it because he was ashamed. Because since their encounter with the man from the Shacklemore Agency, he couldn’t look Jez in the eye. Absurdly, he felt he owed her something. He felt he owed the crew. He needed to atone, to make amends for being such a despicable, vile monster. To apologise for his presence among them. To make himself worthy.
Anyway, it was too late to turn back now.
‘We’re
