to a rung, beckoning them.
Jez’s control of the craft was clumsy: she backed up too hard, and swung the lip of the cargo ramp into the gantry rail with a crunch. Metal twisted and screeched, but she managed to stabilise the Ketty Jay again, and now there was an escape route, a ramp leading into the maw of the cargo hold.
Crake was standing as if in a dream, bewildered by all the noise and motion. Bess scooped him up in both arms as if he was a child, holding him close. Then she thumped forward, leaped onto the ramp, and carried him into the cargo hold.
Behind him there was scrambling, voices, men shouting things he didn’t understand. The muffled sound of autocannon fire from above; the whine of prothane thrusters on standby; the blessed safety of walls all around him.
Then the hydraulics kicked in, and the cargo ramp began to close. Malvery was shouting ‘Jez! Get us out of here!’ Pinn was wailing. The whole world swung as the craft moved. There was a wrench of metal from outside as the Ketty Jay tore off part of the gantry rail.
Acceleration.
It took some time before the fog of panic cleared and Crake’s senses returned. He realised that Bess had put him down on the floor, and was squatting next to him. He could see the glimmers of light inside her faceplate, like distant stars. Malvery was telling Pinn to shut up.
‘I’m bleeding out, Doc! I’m going cold!’
‘It’s just a flesh wound, you damn pansy. Stop whining.’
‘If I don’t make it through . . . you have to tell Lisinda . . .’
‘Oh, her. Sure. I’ll tell your sweetheart you died a hero. Come on, hobble your arse to my surgery, I’ll give you a couple of stitches. We’ll have you fixed by the time we pick up the Cap’n.’
There was movement, and the umber-skinned, narrow face of the Murthian loomed into Crake’s view.
‘You alright?’ he asked.
Crake swallowed and nodded.
Silo looked up at Bess. ‘She’s a fine thing,’ he said. Then he picked up the compass that was lying next to Crake. The compass he’d taken from Dracken’s cabin. Silo weighed it in his hand thoughtfully, then gave Crake a look of approval, stood up and walked away.
Bess was making echoing coos in her chest. Crake sat up and ran his hand along the metal plating of her arm. It was scored with burn marks and dents.
‘I’m sorry, Bess,’ he murmured. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Bess cooed again and nuzzled him, bumping the cold iron of her faceplate against his cheek.
Twenty-Six
Frey celebrated his victory in the traditional manner, and was roaring drunk by dawn.
They reclaimed the Firecrow and the Skylance from their hiding place outside Rabban, then flew for three hours, changing course several times until they were thoroughly sure that any attempts at pursuit would be hopeless. After that they began to search for a place to put down. Frey found a hillside clearing amid the vast moon-silvered landscape of the Vardenwood. There they sallied out, built a campfire, and Frey proceeded to get hammered on cheap grog.
It had been a long, long time since he felt this good.
He
