Iron Jackal by Chris Wooding Page A

screwed his eyes shut, and exerted every ounce of control he had. His fingers tightened around the wrench in his hand. It was like a searing flood inside him, a need to kill everything and everyone, to destroy himself in one glorious rampage and then—
    He whacked the wrench against the side of the assembly. Once, twice, three times. The cat took fright and bolted in a scrabble of claws.
    That small violence took the edge off his anger. Slowly, it subsided. He was left panting, sweat trickling from his shaven scalp to drip off his nose.
    Worse than ever. Damn it. Worse than ever.
    Rage had been the bane of his family. It had killed his father and his brother and it had almost killed him. As a young man, he’d made the decision that he’d never let it consume him the way it had them. But sometimes, just sometimes, there was too much to keep inside.
    Samarla. Just being here brought back the memories. The beatings. The forced labour. His countrymen, murdered before his eyes. But most of all, most of all, the humiliation .
    But there were other memories, too. Memories of revenge. Fighting those Daks on the Rattletraps, chasing them down, he’d felt powerful. He hadn’t felt that for a long time. But he’d been reminded of it during the battle for the train, how he’d once been more than he was now. It had fired his blood and smashed his calm with an ease that frightened him.
    You shouldn’t’a come.
    He was loyal to the Cap’n, and proud of it. Loyal enough that he’d taken a bullet for him once. But when did loyalty become servitude? And when did servitude become slavery? He didn’t blame the Cap’n for not consulting him about going to Samarla. He blamed himself for submitting to the decision without a word of protest.
    You chose this path, ’member? After what happened. Never again, you said. Never again.
    But Samarla was out there, beyond the Ketty Jay . The hated land. And suddenly it felt like everything he’d achieved since he escaped was futile.
    He’d never left this place, not really. He’d dreamed of freedom, but a dream was all it had been. He’d exchanged one oppressor for another, and this one he couldn’t get away from.
    You still a slave, he thought. And what’s worse, you done it to yourself this time.
    ‘Well,’ said Frey. ‘There it is.’
    ‘There it is,’ Ashua agreed.
    They were standing in the cargo hold, both with their arms crossed.
    ‘So what is it?’ Ashua said at length.
    ‘I gather it’s a protective case of some kind.’
    ‘So what’s it protecting?’
    ‘That, I don’t know,’ Frey replied.
    They regarded the object without much hope of enlightenment. It was a black oblong, a metre and a half in length, twenty centimetres thick and thirty wide. Beyond that, it was utterly featureless. It lay on the flat lid of the chest that contained the rest of the salvage.
    The case that enclosed the relic kept its mysteries within.
    They were alone in the cargo hold, except for Bess, who had gone dormant and now stood lifeless in the stifling gloom. Crake and Malvery had taken Pinn to the infirmary. Silo was in the engine room, as usual. Jez and Harkins, after helping them secure the Rattletraps, had gone off to run diagnostics in the cockpit. It was only a one-person job, but Harkins was happy to tag along.
    Frey briefly wondered if Harkins had thought through the consequences of his obsession with the navigator. Jez’s heart didn’t beat, and she didn’t breathe. If he did manage to consummate his desire, surely it would qualify as necrophilia. Still, he couldn’t see Harkins ever making it with a live girl, so he supposed it was fair enough to try.
    ‘We ought to look inside,’ Ashua said.
    ‘You reckon?’
    ‘Give it a go,’ she urged. ‘Try to open it.’
    ‘We’re not supposed to.’
    ‘Why? Because the ghoul told you? You do everything she says?’
    Frey snorted. ‘You do it, if you’re so keen.’
    Ashua made a soft clucking noise, like a chicken. Frey