Goliath

THIRTY-THREE

Alek spun about, but no one else was looking. Even Malone was staring into his notebook.

“There’s a rocket,” he said, not nearly loud enough. Then he found his voice and shouted, “We’re under attack!”

Heads turned toward him, as slow as tortoises’, but finally a crewman spotted the rocket climbing toward them. Shouts carried across the platform, and one of the lifting engines roared to life. The craft slewed to one side, Alek’s boots skidding beneath him.

The rocket was almost upon them, hissing like a steam train. Alek threw himself down onto the platform deck, sheltering Bovril beneath his body, as the missile roared past.

An explosion cracked the air above him and flung tendrils of flame down upon the jitney. An ember the size of a pumpkin bounced across the deck, hissing and spilling smoke. It knocked down a crewman, then rolled off the platform and hit one of the hot-air balloons. The thin envelope full of superheated air burst into flame.

Alek’s eyes were forced shut by the heat rolling up from below. He covered his face and peered out between gloved fingers. As the crew and passengers fled from the fire, the jitney rolled with their weight, dropping to one side. But a moment later the envelope was consumed, the fire having burnt itself into a ghost in seconds.

With only three balloons left, the jitney began to tip again, but now in the opposite direction—toward the corner with no lift. The passengers staggered back that way, then one fell and slid, and Alek saw in a flash how this would end. As their weight gathered on the damaged corner of the jitney, the tilt would increase until the craft flipped over.

Tesla had realized it too. “Grab on to something!” the man cried, taking hold of the platform rail. “Stay in this side!”

Lying beside Alek, Eddie Malone began to slide away, but Alek seized the man’s hand. Around them other passengers were slipping; some managed to take hold of the rail, some spread their weight flat across the deck. Bovril mewled inside Alek’s coat, and Malone’s hand squeezed his hard. Captain Hobbes was shouting orders at the jitney’s crew.

The craft began to gyrate, like a leaf falling through the air. Buildings spun past, alternating with empty sky. Would they fall into the freezing water? Or crash into Manhattan’s steel and marble towers?

The fall seemed to take forever—the three remaining balloons were still full and functioning, and the jitney was not much heavier than the air around it. Alek saw Captain Hobbes at one of the lifting engines, trying to control the ship’s descent.

Soon they were over solid ground. Buildings spun past on all sides, their lit windows streaking across Alek’s view.

Then the jitney struck something solid, and the wooden deck beneath him split, hurling splinters into the air. The craft’s underside shrieked, skidding sideways. Then came a crash like thunder, and a brick chimney shattered as the craft barreled through it. The captain had brought them down onto a large rooftop.

Brick fragments of the chimney scattered across the deck, but the jitney was still sliding. Ahead Alek saw a wireless aerial rushing at him. He covered his head, but the aerial bent away under the mass of the jitney. The groan of the skid continued for another few seconds, then ended with another crash. The ruined craft had finally run into something heavy enough to stop it.

Alek looked up. A short wooden tower loomed over the jitney’s deck. The bottom of the tower’s struts were splintered, and it leaned precariously over him, but it didn’t fall.

“Fire!” someone yelled.

Another of the balloons had burst into flame. The fuel in its burner was spilling from the jitney’s deck, carrying the fire onto the rooftop. The marines and Captain Hobbes were beating the flames, but the blaze simply leapt onto their jackets, borne by the fuel.

“That’s a water tower!” Malone pointed at the structure the jitney had half knocked over in its crash.

Alek looked about. The jitney carried no tools that he could see, but one of the lifting propellers had broken into pieces. He hefted one of the blades. It was a meter long and wasn’t sharp, but it was heavy. Wielding it like an axe, Alek began to hack at the side of the water tower. The heat of the flames grew worse behind him.

The tower began to split beneath his blows. The wood was old and rotten, the nails rusted, and soon the planks were cracking open.

But no water rushed from the gap.

Malone stayed Alek’s hand, then climbed up and looked in.

“It’s empty, dammit!”

Alek groaned, turning back to the fire. It had reached the wooden deck of the jitney, and the Leviathan’s crewmen were retreating from the blaze.

“Your Highness!” the captain called. “This way! There’s a fire escape!”

Alek blinked. They couldn’t leave the building to burn, could they?

“Come on, Your Majesty!” Malone said, grabbing his arm.

Then Alek felt a drop of water hit his face, and he reached up and touched a finger to it. More drops fell, and for a moment he thought that it was a perfect and improbable rain spilling from a clear sky.

But then Alek’s nose caught the familiar scent….

“Clart,” said Bovril from inside his coat.

“Indeed.” Alek breathed in the effluence of a hundred interlocked species, all of it mixed in the gut of a living airship. He shielded his eyes and looked up to see the underside of the Leviathan a hundred meters above, its ballast tubes swelling. The downpour built around him, its roar joined by the plaintive hissing of the blaze.

Someone aboard must have been looking back, watching the jitney disappear into a tiny flicker against the city lights. Someone had seen the attack and had told the bridge crew to come about.

“Mr. Sharp,” said Bovril, then had a chuckle.

The heat of the fire was gone now, and Alek found himself soaking wet in a cold autumn wind. He cast aside the ruined sable coat, and Bovril scampered up onto his shoulder. The downpour was fading quickly now, and the Leviathan was growing smaller overhead. With its ballast spilled, it was climbing rapidly into the air, safe from any more rocket attacks.

“Two birds with one stone,” Alek murmured, then looked about the roof. Dr. Busk was tending to Mr. Tesla and one of the jitney crewmen, but no one seemed seriously hurt. He heard the siren of a fire brigade from the streets below.

“Look over here, Your Majesty!” Eddie Malone was backing up, his free hand shielding his camera from the last of the falling ballast. He was taking a photograph of the crashed jitney, with Alek as the star.

It was pointless scowling, Alek supposed. He dutifully set his jaw. The camera flashed, and he was blinking away spots. When he could see again, he noticed how close Malone was to the edge of the roof.

An odd realization struck Alek. As the jitney had been crashing, he’d saved Malone from falling. If Alek hadn’t seen him, or their fingers had slipped, the man might have slid to his doom. Then Deryn’s secret would be safe again.

But Alek had saved Malone, just as he’d failed to say a word in her defense. It was as though he couldn’t stop betraying her.

Then, quite suddenly, a simple and perfect idea entered his mind. Not letting himself think twice, Alek crossed the slick, broken deck of the jitney, until he was close enough to the reporter to speak softly. The camera flashed again.

“I saved your life during the crash,” Alek said. “Didn’t I, Mr. Malone?”

The man thought for a second, then nodded. “I suppose you did. Thanks for that!”

“You’re welcome. Would you consider that payment for, say, not publishing what you know about Deryn?”

Malone laughed. “Not likely, Your Majesty.”

“I didn’t think so.” Alek smiled, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Luckily, I have a backup plan.”