and rapid. His eyes moved restlessly behind their lids. The air smelled of oil and blood, and the floor moved with the tilting of the Ketty Jay as she flew.
Crake’s hands were covered in gore. He felt somehow that he should have been sickened by that, but he was too intent on the moment to allow himself weakness. He remembered the Silo that had helped him patch up Bess after the gunfight at Rabban, the one who had talked and joked with him on that grassy hillside. They were no longer strangers to each other. Crake would do whatever he had to.
Malvery ripped open Silo’s shirt, exposing the wound. A ragged hole had been punched through one slab-like pectoral. Rich blood welled out of it in awful quantity. He swore under his breath.
‘He’s bleeding inside,’ said Malvery. ‘I can’t do anything.’
‘You’ve got to!’ Crake protested. ‘Open him up. Stop the bleeding!’
‘I can’t,’ Malvery said. He adjusted his round green glasses and tugged anxiously at the end of his white moustache. ‘I just can’t.’
He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of medicinal alcohol. He’d unstoppered it and brought it to his lips before Crake snatched it from him and slammed it angrily down on the operating table.
‘You’re the only one who can do this, Malvery!’ he snapped. ‘Forget what happened to your friend. You’re a surgeon! Do your damn job!’
‘I’m not a surgeon any more,’ Malvery replied, staring at the man on the operating table in front of him. Blood pumped up from the bullet wound and spilled down Silo’s chest in grotesque washes of red. Crake clapped his hands ineffectually over the wound, then began looking around for something better to staunch the flow.
He understood Malvery’s pain, but he’d no time for sympathy while Silo lay dying. If only Crake had been a better daemonist, he might have used the Art to heal the Murthian. But he didn’t have the equipment, so he couldn’t do anything. Silo’s only chance was Malvery, and the doctor was paralysed.
‘Spit and blood, you’re just going to stand by and watch?’ Crake cried.
‘What do you want from me?’ Malvery bellowed. ‘A miracle? He’s dying! I can’t stop that!’
‘You can try!’ Crake shouted back with equal ferocity. Malvery was shocked at the force in Crake’s usually quiet tone. ‘This isn’t like the last time. He’s going to die anyway. Nobody will blame you if you fail, I’ll make sure of that. But I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when the captain finds out you didn’t even try.’
Just then, the Ketty Jay yawed to port, making him stumble; he had to put out a hand on the operating table to steady himself. The bottle of alcohol tipped from the table, but Crake caught it before it fell. Malvery’s eyes went to it.
‘Give me the bottle,’ he said.
Crake just glared at him.
‘I’ll need a swig to steady my hand!’ Malvery insisted.
‘Your hand’s plenty steady, Doc. Do it. Earn your place.’
‘Me?’ Malvery roared. ‘You’ve been barely four months aboard, you arrogant shit!’
‘Yes. And I saved you all at Tarlock Cove. Bess saved you from Kedmund Drave. I uncovered Grephen’s plans at Scorchwood Heights, and we’d never have taken the charts from Dracken without Bess. We’ve done our part. Pinn and Harkins fly, Jez navigates, Silo keeps the craft running. What do you do that one of us couldn’t? Fire a shotgun? Work the autocannon occasionally? You’re a
