Leviathan

THIRTY-SIX

The next afternoon’s watch Deryn and Newkirk were posted on the spine.

Overnight the ship had swelled, the Leviathan’s gut in full roar from the beasties’ day of gorging. Down on the snow the last of the ship’s stores were splayed out, swarmed with feasting birds. Deryn felt her own stomach rumbling with her breakfast of greasy biscuits and coffee. The crew were allowed to eat only what food the animals wouldn’t touch.

But a few hunger pangs were worth the bounce of the membrane under Deryn’s feet—taut and healthy again. The lumps along the airbeast’s flanks were smoothing out. At around noon the wind had started to drag the lightened ship across the glacier, forcing the riggers to fill the ballast tanks with melted snow.

But Dr. Busk had said it would be a close thing, lifting the weight of the Clanker engines along with five extra men.

“He’s moving,” Newkirk said. “He must still be alive.”

Deryn glanced up at the Huxley. Mr. Rigby had insisted on taking a watch aloft, saying he couldn’t bear his last two middies getting frostbite from long hours in the icy sky, even if it meant sneaking out of the sick bay.

“We best pull him down soon,” Deryn said. “Dr. Busk will skin us if he freezes up there.”

“Aye,” Newkirk said, blowing on his hands. “But if he comes down, one of us will have to go back up.”

Deryn shrugged. “Beats egg duty.”

“At least egg duty’s warm.”

“Well, you might still be on it, Mr. Newkirk, if you hadn’t killed one of the boffin’s barking eggs.”

“It’s not my fault we’re stuck on this iceberg!”

“It’s a glacier, you ninny!”

Newkirk grumbled something unpleasant and stormed away, stomping his feet on the hard scales of the spine. He’d claimed the egg disaster had been Dr. Barlow’s fault for not explaining Clanker temperatures, but a number was a number, Deryn reckoned.

She almost called him back to apologize, but only swore. Might as well see how work was going on the new engine pods.

Deryn lifted her binoculars… .

The forward engines were partway down the airship’s flanks, thrusting out like a pair of ears. The tops of both pods had been removed, and a muddle of oversize Clanker machinery stuck out in all directions. Alek was working on the port side, along with Hoffman and Mr. Hirst, the airship’s chief engineer. They were all in animated conversation, arms waving in the cold wind.

The whole business seemed to be going slowly. At about noon the starboard engine—where Klopp and Bauer were working—had sputtered to life for a few noisy seconds, the membrane rumbling under Deryn’s feet. But something must have cracked. The engine had shut down with a shriek, and the Clankers had spent the next hour tossing bits of burnt metal down onto the snow.

Deryn turned to scan the horizon. It had been more than a day since the Kondor attack. The Germans wouldn’t give them much longer. A few recon aeroplanes had already peeked over the mountains, just making sure the wounded airship hadn’t gone anywhere. Everyone said the Germans were taking their time, assembling an overwhelming force. The assault could come at any minute.

And yet Deryn’s eyes drifted back to Alek. He was translating for Hoffman now, pointing at the front end of the engine pods. He spun his hands about like props, and Deryn smiled, imagining his voice for a moment.

Then she lowered the field glasses and swore, emptying her mind of blether. She was a soldier, not some girl twisting her skirts at a village dance.

“Mr. Sharp!” came Newkirk’s shout. “Rigby’s in trouble!”

She looked up. Newkirk was at the winch already, cranking madly. A yellow distress ribbon fluttered from the Huxley, and Mr. Rigby’s semaphore flags were moving. Deryn raised her field glasses.

The letters whipped past at double speed, and she’d missed the beginning, mooning dafty that she was. But the sense of the message soon became clear.

… D-U-E—E-A-S-T—E-I-G-H-T—L-E-G-S—A-N-D— S-C-O-U-T-S

Deryn frowned, wondering if she’d misread the signals. “Legs” meant a walking machine, of course, but there weren’t any eight-legged walkers listed in the Manual. Even the biggest Clanker dreadnoughts needed only six to move about.

And this was Switzerland, still neutral territory. Would the Germans dare attack by land?

But as Rigby repeated the signals, the words flashed past again, clear as day. Along with another bit of news:

E-S-T-I-M-A-T-E—T-E-N—M-I-L-E-S—C-L-O-S-I-N-G— F-A-S-T

Suddenly Deryn’s brain was fully back into soldiering.

“Can you get him down without me, Newkirk?” she called.

“Aye, but what if he’s hurt?”

“He’s not. It’s barking Clankers … and they’re coming by land! I’ve got to raise an alert.”

Deryn pulled out her command whistle and piped the signal for an approaching enemy. A nearby hydrogen sniffer perked up its ears, then began an alert howl.

The wailing spread down the ship, sniffer to sniffer, like a living air-raid siren. In moments men were scrambling everywhere. Deryn looked about for the officer of the watch—there he was, Mr. Roland, running toward her across the spine.

“Report, Mr. Sharp.”

She pointed up at the Huxley. “It’s the bosun, sir. He’s spotted another walker coming!”

“Mr. Rigby? What in blazes is he doing aloft?”

“He insisted, sir,” Deryn said. “The walker’s got eight legs, he says—I checked that part twice.”

“Eight?” Mr. Roland said. “Must be a cruiser at least.”

“Aye, it’s big, sir. He’s spotted it from ten miles away.”

“Well, that’s lucky. The big ones aren’t so quick. We’ll have an hour at least before it’s here.” He turned, snapping at a message lizard scuttling past.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Deryn said, “but Mr. Rigby said ‘closing fast.’ Maybe this is a nippy one.”

The master rigger frowned. “Sounds unlikely, lad. But check with the Clankers. See if they know anything about this eight-legged business. Then bring word to the bridge.”

Deryn saluted, spun about, and headed down.

Drop lines were hanging all along the spine, so she clipped a carabiner onto one and rappelled, bouncing down the flank. The rope hissed through her gloves, the metal carabiner turning hot as she slid.

Deryn’s blood began to race, the rush of coming battle erasing everything else. The ship was still defenseless, unless the Clankers could get their engines going.

When her boots clanged against the metal support struts of the pod, Mr. Hirst looked up from the jumble of gears. He was hanging off the edge of the engine, no safety line in sight.

“Mr. Sharp! What’s all this howling about?”

“Another walker’s been spotted, sir,” she said, then turned to Alek. His face was streaked with grease, like stripes of black war paint. “We’re not sure what kind. But it’s got eight legs, so we reckon it’s big.”

“Sounds like the Herkules,” he said. “We passed her at the Swiss border. She’s a thousand-ton frigate, new and experimental.”

“But is she fast?”

Alek nodded. “Almost as quick as our walker. You say she’s here in Switzerland? Have the Germans gone mad?”

“WARNING THE NEW ENGINE TEAM.”

“Mad enough—she’s ten miles east, and has scouts with her. How long do you think we’ve got?”

Alek spoke to Hoffman a moment, translating into German and metric. Deryn felt her foot tapping as she waited, her stinging palms wrapped tightly around the rope. One jump and she’d be sliding toward the bridge.

“Maybe twenty minutes?” Alek finally said.

“Blisters!” she swore. “I’m heading down to tell the officers. Is there anything else they should know?”

Hoffman reached out and took Alek’s arm, muttering in hurried Clanker. Alek’s eyes widened as he listened.

“That’s right,” he said. “Those scout craft you mentioned—we saw them too. They’re armed with spotting flares, full of some sort of sticky phosphorous!”

Everyone was silent for a moment. Phosphorous … the perfect stuff to roast a hydrogen breather.

Maybe the Germans didn’t plan on capturing them after all.

“Well, get going, lad!” Mr. Hirst shouted at Deryn. “I’ll send a lizard to the other engine. And you two, let’s get this contraption started up!”

Deryn took one last glance at Alek, then stepped from the strut. She dropped toward the bridge, the rope sizzling hot between her gloved hands.