Goliath

TWENTY-EIGHT

“Those men on the ropes look quite sharp,” Captain Hobbes said. “And this canyon keeps the wind steady enough.”

None of the officers answered. They were spread out across the bridge, each at a different window, watching for signs of treachery. Bovril shifted nervously on Alek’s shoulder, scenting disquiet in the air.

Outside, the rebels were hard at work, staking ropes into the hard ground and tying them onto metal posts driven straight into the rock. The lines trembled as the Leviathan winched itself down, its huge shadow spreading meter by meter across the canyon floor. The captain hadn’t vented any hydrogen, in case a quick takeoff were necessary. To Alek it felt as though the airbeast were fighting the ropes, like Gulliver among the Lilliputians.

“Do you really think these rebels will help us?” he asked Dr. Barlow.

“I should hope so, after putting us through all this bother.” She sniffed. “I’m sure Mr. Hearst only wanted a bit of drama for his newsreel.”

“Newsreel,” her loris said softly, then hmphed.

“And to think I trusted that man,” Mr. Tesla said. He’d been in a dark mood since the breakdown, especially after the engine pod had reported that Hearst’s fuel was to blame.

“He may want peace,” Dr. Barlow said. “But conflict sells newspapers.”

“I’ve heard of this Pancho Villa fellow, haven’t I?” Alek asked.

“He’s in all the papers at the moment.” Mr. Tesla stared out the window at the ground men. “His name is Francisco Villa, but he goes by the nickname Pancho because he’s a friend of the poor. He seizes wealthy plantations and gives them to the peasants.”

“Quite a common habit among rebels,” Dr. Barlow said, and her loris made a sniffing noise. “One hopes that he is above seizing airships.”

Alek shook his head. However chaotic the world might be, he knew that providence was guiding him toward peace. His quest couldn’t end here in this dusty canyon.

“Bridge, this is Middy Sharp!” came Deryn’s voice from nowhere.

All eyes turned to the message lizard clinging to the ceiling.

“Walkers on the cliffs above us, at least two,” it said. “Could be an ambush!”

A stir went through the bridge, and Bovril shivered on Alek’s shoulder. The officers gathered around the captain.

“Walkers?” Alek said. “But they’re Darwinists.”

“Those airships had Clanker engines,” Tesla said.

Dr. Barlow glanced out the window. “This is unsettling. The Leviathan is quite vulnerable to attack from above.”

Alek tried to peer up at the surrounding cliffs, but the gasbag blocked out the sky. He felt trapped beneath the vast expanse of the airship.

Blast Hearst and his news-making games.

“Prepare to blow all ballast,” the captain announced.

“Cut the landing lines, sir?” an officer asked.

“Don’t bother. At this buoyancy they’ll break.”

“That’s a bit unfriendly,” Dr. Barlow muttered. “Those lines can decapitate a man when they snap.”

Outside, the ground men were still working patiently to secure the ropes, not suspecting the chaos about to be unleashed. A flight-suited figure was among them, a pair of gliding wings folded across his back.

Alek turned to Dr. Barlow. “But Newkirk’s out there. We can’t leave him behind!”

“I fear we must.” The lady boffin shook her head. “If this is an ambush, we can’t afford to give them warning.”

“You mean we’ll just—,” Alek began, but a dark shape was flickering across the ground—a small, winged shadow just beyond the starboard edge of the airship.

“On my command.” Captain Hobbes raised his hand.

Alek squinted, watching the shadow wheel in ever-tightening circles. Its shape reminded him of the gliding wings on Newkirk’s back.

“Deryn Sharp,” whispered Bovril.

“Wait!” Alek cried, spinning about to face the captain. He took two steps closer, but a marine guard blocked his way. “It’s Dylan!”

The captain turned, his hand still raised.

“Middy Sharp’s gliding down!” Alek shouted. “There must be a reason!”

The officers stood ready, their eyes on the captain. The man hesitated a moment, then glanced at the first officer. “Take a look.”

Alek crossed back to the windows, pointing at the flitting, wheeling shadow. The men on the landing lines had seen it now—they were looking up and calling to one another.

“How do you know it’s Sharp?” the first officer asked.

“Because it’s—it’s…,” Alek sputtered.

“Mr. Sharp!” Bovril declared.

Deryn’s winged form streaked into sight beneath the edge of the gasbag, careening downward at an absurd angle, two semaphore flags rippling in her hands. She shot past the bridge windows in an instant, arms flailing, and then she was gone.

“Did anyone catch that signal?” the captain asked.

“A-M, sir,” one of the navigators said. “That’s all I got.”

“‘Ambush,’” the captain said. “Stand ready, lads.”

“Pardon me, sir,” the first officer said. “But there was a C at first.”

Captain Hobbes hesitated, shaking his head.

Alek ran to the far side of the bridge—Deryn’s shadow wheeled about, and a moment later she swung back into view. She came in low across the front windows, sending the ground men scattering before her.

Her semaphore flags were still waving, but then her boots skidded on hard ground. Deryn reached up to regain control, the flags falling from her hands.

The wings pulled her up into the air one last time, then crumpled and twisted, dropping her into a stumbling halt. Ground men came running from all directions, and Deryn disappeared among them in a cloud of dust.

“Did anyone get that signal?” the captain shouted.

“E-R-A?” the first officer said.

“C-A-M,” Bovril muttered, and suddenly it all fell into place.

“The walkers on the cliffs,” Alek said. “They’re camera platforms!”

“Walker cameras?” The captain shook his head. “Why would rebels have that sort of equipment?”

“With Sharp flying about, they must know we’re on to them,” the first officer said. “Sir, we should blow—”

“The film!” Dr. Barlow cried. “Those barrels had unexposed rolls of film in them. So the rebels must have motion picture cameras. This isn’t an attack!”

The bridge was silent for a moment, all eyes on the captain. He stood there with his arms crossed tight, fingers drumming.

“They haven’t fired at us yet,” he finally said. “But stand ready to blow all ballast if you hear so much as a gunshot.”

Alek breathed out a slow sigh, and Bovril’s claws eased their grip on his shoulder. But then Dr. Busk spoke up: “Sharp looks hurt.”

Alek ran to the front of the bridge, shoving his way past the marine guards. From the front windows he saw her lying curled on the ground a hundred yards away.

“I’m going out there.”

The captain cleared his throat. “I can’t allow that, Your Highness.”

“Does anyone else on this ship speak Spanish?” Alek asked, trusting that between Italian and Latin he could manage.

The captain looked at his officers, then shook his head. “Perhaps not, but if the situation deteriorates, we’ll have to blow our ballast.”

“Exactly. Any misunderstanding could be a disaster, so give me a chance to sort this out!”

The captain thought another moment, then sighed and turned to Dr. Busk. “You go with him, and take five marines.”

Newkirk was already at Deryn’s side. A crowd of Villa’s men surrounded them, one waving and calling “Médico,” which certainly meant “doctor”—at least in Italian. A few landing lines swung freely, and an officer was trying to get the men back to their ropes.

“Dylan!” Alek shouted, pushing through the crowd. The rebels pulled away, giving Bovril wide-eyed stares.

Newkirk looked up, his face streaked with dust. “He’s conscious, but he’s done his leg.”

“Of course I’m barking conscious!” Deryn shouted. “It hurts like blazes!”

Alek knelt beside her. The left arm of her uniform was torn and bloody, and she clasped one knee to her chest. Her eyes were squeezed shut against the pain.

Bovril made a soft unhappy noise, and Alek took Deryn’s hand.

“I’ve brought Dr. Busk,” he said.

Her eyes sprang open, and she whispered, “You Dummkopf!”

Alek froze. Injured or not, Deryn couldn’t afford to have a surgeon prying at her.

“Newkirk, get these men back on their lines!” Alek ordered. Then he whispered to Deryn, “Take my arm. If you can stand up, he might not look too closely.”

“Stand on my right,” she said, grasping his shoulder. Alek counted down from three under his breath, then stood, pulling her up onto one leg. Together they faced Dr. Busk, who was making his way through the crowd with the marine guards.

Deryn shifted on her good leg beside Alek, threatening to pull him over. She was rather taller than him, he realized, and heavier than she looked—muscles from climbing, he supposed. Bovril helpfully jumped down onto the ground.

Alek gritted his teeth and nodded at Dr. Busk. “Mr. Sharp seems well enough.”

The surgeon looked Deryn up and down. “Should you be standing, Mr. Sharp? That was quite a spill.”

“It’s all right, sir. Just a banged-up knee.” She skidded forward a bit, and Alek helped her take a step. “I’ll walk it off.”

“Blast it, Sharp. Sit down.” Dr. Busk reached into his black leather bag and pulled out a pair of long scissors. “Let me take a look at that leg.”

Deryn glanced at Alek, nodding just a bit, and the two struggled together to a nearby flat rock. Deryn sat down heavily, and Bovril crawled up into her lap. She grimaced at the beast’s weight, but swallowed any cry of pain.

A metal stake had been pounded into the shaley stone beside her, and the landing rope that was lashed to it quivered with energy. Alek imagined it snapping with enough force to cut his head off, and glanced up at the bridge windows. He could just make out the captain peering down, his officers crowded around him.

“We got your message just in time,” Alek said.

“C-A-M-E-R-A,” Bovril said proudly.

“I wish I hadn’t sent the first one.” Deryn shook her head, stroking Bovril’s fur. “According to Miss Rogers, General Villa’s in the barking movie business! That’s why Hearst is smuggling him arms and film. He wants battle scenes for his newsreels.”

“Newsreels, fah!” Bovril said.

“Steady there, lad.” Dr. Busk was cutting away Deryn’s trouser leg above the knee. Her flesh looked pale around a purpling bruise.

She stared up at Alek, worry in her eyes. If the leg were broken, carrying off her deception would be impossible.

“Sir!” one of the marines called. “Someone’s coming.”

Dr. Busk didn’t look up. “Some diplomacy, Your Highness, if you please.”

“Of course.” Alek gave Deryn what he hoped was a reassuring nod, then stood and turned. Two large creatures were approaching, sending a ripple through the ground men.

The crowd parted to reveal a pair of gigantic fabricated bulls. They stood at least three meters tall, their horns tipped with metal, their shoulders as broad as train engines. The bulls had riders on their backs, holding steel chains that ran down through silver rings in the beasts’ noses. Behind each rider was mounted a platform with another soldier; one bull carried a Gatling gun, the other a motion picture camera.

Almost lost between the two huge beasts was a man on horseback. He wore riding boots and pale trousers, a small-brimmed hat, and a short brown jacket crossed with two bandoliers of bullets. His clothes looked rumpled, as if he had just arisen from bed, and from above an unkempt, bristly mustache peered two lively brown eyes.

Alek knew only a few words of Spanish, but he bowed and gave it a try.

“Sono Aleksandar, principe de Hohenberg.”

The man laughed and said in a careful but clear English, “I think you mean ‘soy.’ General Francisco Villa, revolutionary governor of Chihuahua, at your service.”

“It is an honor, General,” Alek said, bowing again.

So this was the famous rebel leader, the Robin Hood of Mexican peasants. Alek wondered what the man must think of the wealthy young prince before him, and if he had picked a side in the Great War in Europe.

The pistol on his belt was a Mauser—German made.

“Is your man hurt?” Villa asked.

Alek turned. Deryn was wincing in pain as Dr. Busk applied some sort of compress to her knee. “We hope not, sir.”

“My personal doctor is coming. But please, why did he jump off your ship? He makes us very nervous for a moment.”

“It was the camera walkers.” Alek looked up. “There was some confusion about their purpose.”

The man clicked his tongue. “Ah, I should have known. Last winter one of these walkers captures a whole platoon of Federales. They thought it would shoot them!”

Alek compared the Gatling gun and camera on the two monstrous bulls. “An understandable mistake. It seems an odd machine for an army to travel with.”

The man pointed at the Leviathan’s gondola. “But okay for your airship?”

Alek looked up and saw Mr. Francis and his men filming the encounter through the open windows of the middies’ mess. Here he was in front of the cameras, performing again.

“There seems to be no escaping them,” Alek said. “Can you help us repair our engines?”

The man bowed low in his saddle. “Of course. All part of my deal with Señor Hearst. He sends his apologies for the inconvenience.”

Alek was about to say something unpleasant, but a cry came from Deryn, and he spun about. Dr. Busk was pulling off her jacket now, revealing a red stain running down her left arm. In another moment he would have her shirt off.

Alek turned to General Villa. “Please, sir. If your doctor could be quick. I’m afraid our ship’s surgeon is… a bit incompetent.”

“You are lucky, then. Dr. Azuela is quite experienced with wounds of battle.” Villa pointed at a man coming through the crowd. “Take him to your friend.”

Alek gave a quick bow and raced back to where Deryn sat. He placed a firm hand on Dr. Busk’s shoulder. “General Villa would prefer that his own doctor see to Mr. Sharp.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“He insists, as our host,” Alek hissed softly. “We should not insult him.”

“Most irregular,” Dr. Busk said, but he stood and took a step back. Dr. Azuela was coming through the crowd. A man of less than forty, he was dressed in a tweed suit and string tie, his eyes behind small round glasses.

Alek went to him, wondering how to get Deryn hidden. He looked up at the bright sun, ransacking his brain for a few words of Spanish.

“El sol. Malo.”

The Mexican doctor glanced at Deryn, then at the Leviathan’s shadow only a dozen meters away.

“Can he walk?” he said in excellent English.

“We can’t move him,” Alek said. “Is there some way to get cover?”

“Of course,” the man said, and began to shout orders. Soon the ground men were flinging canvas tarps across the landing lines, putting Deryn in the shadow of a makeshift tent and out of view of the Leviathan’s gondola.

As they worked, Alek pulled Dr. Busk aside. “General Villa wants a message taken to the captain. He says he’ll do whatever he can to repair the ship.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, I suppose. I’ll send one of the marines.”

Alek shook his head. “He wants an officer to deliver it.”

Dr. Busk frowned, looking at the tarps. “I see. Look after Sharp, will you?”

“Of course, Doctor,” Alek said, turning away with a sigh of relief. The only remaining trick was to keep the rebel doctor from discovering Deryn’s secret, or at least from making a fuss about it.

Halfway back to the makeshift tent, Alek realized that he had lied to three men in as many minutes. And worse, he’d done so rather skillfully.

He shook his head, ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach. Deryn had warned him about this, after all, and he’d given his word. This was the battle that she fought every day, and he was part of her deception now.