Goliath (Leviathan Trilogy)

by Scott Westerfeld

  Miss Rogers laughed. “Really, young man, I doubt you would know the signs of that condition. In any case, it isn’t Mr. Francis I’ve been following. It’s you.”

  “Pardon me, miss?

  “Because you’re quite obviously the bell captain of this ship.”

  Deryn blinked. “What are you blethering about?”

  The woman took a step back, looking Deryn up and down like a tailor sizing up a client. “I grew up in a hotel, you see. Daddy was hopeless at housekeeping, and my mother wanted nothing to do with us, so it was our only hope of a civilized life. I learned at a tender age that the most important person in a hotel isn’t the owner, or the manager, or even the house detective. It’s the bell captain. He’s the one who knows where the bodies are buried. He got quite a nice tip for burying them, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, miss, I don’t know what you mean,” Deryn said. “I’m a midshipman, not a bellman.”

  “Oh, yes. I caught your act last night, all white gloves and merrily pouring the brandy. But underneath it you’re in on everyone’s secrets, aren’t you? And everyone glances at you when they’ve got a pickle to deal with. Dr. Barlow, Prince Aleksandar, even that crusty old count—they all want to know what the bell captain thinks.”

  Deryn swallowed. This woman was either quite mad or dangerously canny. She’d proven quite deft at embarrassing Alek the night before, which had been amusing enough. But now she was being a bit too . . . perspicacious.

  “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean, Miss Rogers.”

  “The only thing my mother ever taught me is that the servants always have the keys.̵

  “I’m not a servant. I’m a decorated officer!”

  “So is the bell captain at any fine hotel! Note the employment of the word ‘captain.’ I wouldn’t mistake you for a bellboy, not ever.”

  Deryn took a step back. What had she meant by that, exactly?

  “Just because I’m a ‘girl reporter,’ don’t think you can—” Miss Rogers’s next words were cut off by the sound of an alert, single rings in quick succession.

  Deryn frowned. “That’s the ‘enemy spotted’ signal.”

  “What enemy? We’re over neutral territory.”

  “Indeed, miss. You’ll have to excuse me.” Deryn turned away, grateful for any excuse to escape the reporter. As she headed toward the central stairs, the corridors filled with men rushing toward their battle stations.

  “Mind if I come along?” asked Miss Rogers, who was, in fact, already coming along.

  “No, miss! My post is on the spine, and passengers have to stay in the gondola. You should head back to your stateroom.”

  Not waiting for an answer, Deryn headed off through the bustling corridors. With the ship at high speed there would be no climbing the ratlines, so she made straight for the interior passages. For that matter, the wind topside would be too much for message lizards to be wandering about. Deryn snatched one up and shoved it into her jacket, in case she needed to get word to the bridge quickly. After all, there were German agents wandering about the ship, reporters everywhere, and now an enemy in the sky.

  Neutral territory, indeed.

  The desert rolled past below, spotted with cacti and red-flanked gulches, and a few small farms cut into verdant rectangles. At three-quarter speed, the view swept past at almost fifty miles an hour, and only the master rigger, Mr. Roland, and a few of his men were topside. Deryn made her way toward them in a half crouch, ready to grab the ratlines if a gust sent her stumbling.

  “Middy Sharp reporting, sir!”

  Mr. Roland returned her salute, then pointed. “Spotted it twenty minutes ago. Some kind of manta airship. Local colors, Clanker engines.”

  A sleek, broad-winged form stood out against the western sky, the pontoon gasbags under its wings striped with red and green. Smoke trailed from it, though Mexico was a Darwinist power.

  “Might that engine be German-made, sir?”

  “Can’t tell from this range,” Mr. Roland said. “But they’re matching our speed.”

  Deryn watched the Mexican airship’s shadow rippling across the desert, and estimated a wingspan of no more than a hundred feet. “Too small to trouble us, though. Perhaps they’re only curious, sir.”

  “Fair enough, as long as they don’t get too close.” Mr. Roland frowned, raising his field glasses. “Is that another one?”

  A second winged shape had caught the sun, just behind the first. Deryn shielded her eyes and swept the horizon, and soon spotted a third manta airship off to starboard.

  She pointed at it. “More than just curiosity, sir.”

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Roland said. “But even three to one, they don’t stand a chance against us.”

  Deryn nodded. Stern chases were tricky in the air. Beasties or rockets launched from the trailing ships would be fighting a fifty-mile-an-hour headwind, while the Leviathan could drop an aerie of strafing hawks into their laps at any time.

  A moment later the Leviathan’s engines roared up to full speed.

  “It seems the captain has taken a dislike to them!” Mr. Roland shouted over the thunderous noise. Both of them knelt on the ratlines as the wind grew fiercer. The Mexican airships didn’t seem to be losing much ground, though. Their smoke trails thickened, spreading across the horizon like storm clouds.

  One of the riggers called from behind them, and Mr. Roland turned to face the headwind. “Who in blazes is that?”

  Deryn turned and saw a figure making its way toward them along the spine. She held her hat on with one hand, and her skirts billowed around stockinged legs.

  “Blisters! That lady reporter must have followed me! Sorry, sir. I’ll tend to her.”

  “See that you do, Sharp.”

  Miss Rogers had the wind at her back, and looked surefooted enough. But when Deryn made to stand up, the headwind sent her staggering backward. She swore and clipped her safety line to Mr. Tesla’s antenna. It was easier than re-clipping herself every few feet.

  She scuttled ahead in a crouch until she reached the reporter.

  “What in blazes are you doing up here?”

  “I’d like to interview you!” the woman yelled, then pulled out a notepad. The pages fluttered furiously, and her unsecured fedora lifted off and shot away. “Oh, dear.”

  “Now’s not the barking time!” Deryn shouted. “As you can see, we’ve got a bit of trouble brewing!”

  Miss Rogers peered into the distance. “Our ‘enemy’ ships would appear to be Mexican. Do you suppose they mean us harm?”

  Deryn took the lady reporter by the arm, but pulling her back toward the hatchway proved impossible. The woman’s skirts caught the headwind like a frigate at full sail. It was a wonder she was standing at all.

  “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Mr. Sharp.” Miss Rogers frowned. “Is there something moving in your jacket?”

  “Aye, a message lizard.”

  “How odd. Now, please tell me about these airships.”

  Deryn glanced back at the Leviathan’s pursuers, then sighed. “If I answer a few questions for you, will you be sensible and go back down?”

  “It’s a deal. Let’s say . . . three questions.”

  “All right, then! But hurry!”

  “Who is following us?”

  “Mexicans.”

  “Yes, but under which of the generals?” Miss Rogers asked. “You realize there’s a revolution on, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know which general, and yes, I do realize there’s a revolution on. That was three questions. Now let’s go!”

  She tried to pull Miss Rogers toward the hatch, but the woman stood firm. “Don’t be preposterous! That was only one question, which required two follow-ups due to your vagaries. My father was a lawyer, you know.”

  “Barking spiders, miss! Why can’t you just—”

  A metal shriek shattered the air, and a cloud of acrid smoke whipped across them both. Deryn turned into the wind, and saw the starboard
Clanker engine spitting flame. With an awful groan its propeller seized, coughing out one last flurry of sparks.

  “What in—,” Deryn began, but with one engine halted, the ship went into a sudden starboard turn. The spine rolled beneath them, and Deryn grabbed Miss Rogers’s arm and yanked them both to their knees. Tesla’s antenna slithered beside them, stretching tighter as the airbeast bent hard along its length.

  A moment later the port engine coasted to a halt, and the ship began to straighten again.

  “What’s going on?” Miss Rogers asked.

  “No idea! But you’ll have to wait here.”

  The airflow was already fading as the Leviathan slowed, and Deryn unclipped herself and ran forward toward the pods. Had the captain run the Clanker engines too hard this last week? Or was this sabotage?

  But Mr. Francis had been followed from the first minute he’d come aboard, and the engines were manned at all times. It had to be a coincidence. . . .

  Deryn reached the hump above the engines and pulled the message lizard from her jacket. “Starboard engine pod, this is Middy Sharp. Report!”

  She set the beastie down, and it scampered toward the pod, making good time. Even with the electrical engines still churning, the wind of the ship’s passage was quickly dying. The airbeast’s cilia never pushed while the Clanker engines were at full-ahead, so they’d been quiet for the better part of ten days. It might take an hour to wake them up again.

  “Barking Clankers,” she swore. Those contraptions had made the airbeast lazy.

  ="0em" width="1em">To the west the Mexican airships were spreading out, taking time to surround their quarry. At this range Deryn could see their full wings and long whiplike tails, definitely based on the life threads of the manta ray. A brace of gasbags beneath the wings provided lift, with the Clanker engines slung in the middle. She recalled something like them from the Manual of Aeronautics, an experimental Italian craft, perhaps. The manta ships weren’t large; they didn’t even carry a gondola. The crews rode in the ratlines on their backs, rifles in hand. The ships’ only heavy armament was a pair of Gatling guns for each ship, mounted fore and aft.

  A line of strafing hawks was streaming out from the Leviathan, but not in attack formation yet. The birds encircled their airship home with a glittering ring of talons.

  The starboard engine had stopped belching smoke, and Deryn saw a familiar spiked helmet down in the pod—Master Klopp’s. The Clanker machinery must have been acting up already, then. Since old Klopp’s injury, the engineers never called him to the pods unless things were going pear-shaped.

  The message lizard scuttled back up, speaking in the master mechanic’s gruff German. “There’s something wrong with the fuel, Dylan. It tastes funny.”

  Deryn frowned. Though she’d seen Klopp dip his finger into fuel and give it a sniff, she’d never seen him taste the stuff.

  “The port engine will also be damaged if it keeps running,” the lizard continued. “Tell them to shut down.”

  “What’s wrong with that critter?” came a voice from behind her. “Sounds like it’s talking German.”

  Deryn sighed as she picked up the lizard. “Yes, Miss Rogers. One of Alek’s men is working down there. That’s a Clanker engine, after all.”

  “And you understand German?”

  “Well enough. I’ve worked with Master Klopp for more than two months now.”

  “What a fine coincidence! You’ve got a German fellow working on your engine that just broke down!”

  “Master Klopp is Austrian!” Deryn said, pushing past the woman and heading across the hump.

  Miss Rogers followed, notebook in hand. “Mr. Sharp, do you still suspect Mr. Francis of German sympathies? While ignoring the actual Clankers on your ship?”

  Deryn waved at the riggers, hoping one would take the reporter away, but they were scrambling to set up an air gun. She swore, storming to the far side of the hump to set the lizard down again.

  “Port engine pod,” she told it. “This is Middy Sharp. Klopp says your fuel supply has something wrong with it. Don’t go to speed unless absolutely necessary! End message.”

  As she shoved the lizard on its way, she realized the engineers would never obey herrders over the captain’s. Maybe she should have sent the lizard to the bridge instead.

  Miss Rogers was scribbling in her notebook. “Fuel supply, eh?”

  “Exactly.” Deryn stood up. “That’s the fuel that Mr. Hearst gave us, and it’s damaged our engines right in the middle of an ambush! Now does that sound like a coincidence to you?”

  Miss Rogers scratched her nose with her pencil. “Hard to say.”

  Deryn looked back at the Mexican airships. One was drawing abreast of the Leviathan, no more than a mile away, a line of semaphore flags running out across its wings.

  G-R-E-E-T-I-N-G-S—L-E-V-I-A-T-H-A-N, they said.

  “So now you’re being friendly,” she muttered.

  “Who is?”

  Deryn pointed at the flags. “They’ve sent us greetings.”

  Another string followed, and she read them out to the reporter.

  E-N-G-I-N-E—T-R-O-U-B-L-E—W-E—C-A-N—H-E-L-P.

  “Well, that sounds friendly,” Miss Rogers said.

  Deryn frowned. “Maybe so, but this is all a bit convenient. They knew just where to find us, and this is a barking big desert.”

  “Young man, this is also a rather big airship.”

  Deryn started to retort, but another string of flags was running out. “It says these airships follow the orders of General Villa.”

  “Pancho Villa? Well, that’s handy.” The lady reporter scribbled. “The chief thinks quite highly of him.”

  Deryn snorted. “No doubt they’re old pals. Now it says they’ve got an airfield nearby, with everything we need to make repairs. And they’re happy to give us a tow.” She squinted at the rest, then swore. “And all they want in return is one little thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A bit of sugar for their hungry beasts.”

  “Oh, dear,” Miss Rogers said.

  Deryn shook her head, remembering what Alek had told her—Hearst had been delighted when he’d found out the Leviathan was headed across Mexico. And somehow he’d set all this in motion—the doctored fuel, the smuggled arms, the airships stalking them—in a single night.

  She looked about. Men and sniffers were streaming up the ratlines now, and a few message lizards as well. She pulled out her command whistle and blew for a lizard. The bridge needed a full report.

  “You say you know this General Villa?”

  The lady reporter shrugged. “Only by reputation, but I know some of his business partners well enough.”

  “All right, then. Stay close to me, and keep your barking eyes open.”

  “Young man, you hardly need to tell me that.”

  The cilia woke faster than Deryn had expected; maybe

  the mantas were giving the airbeast a fright. The motivator engines ran on organic batteries, of course, and hadn’t suffered from Hearst’s contaminated fuel. So the Leviathan was soon under its own power again, following the Mexican airships at a wary distance.

  Deryn sent a message lizard down to the bridge, relating the news that Hearst and General Villa were on friendly terms. It came back and spoke in Captain Hobbes’s own voice, telling her to take charge of docking. That was usually a rigger’s job, but the captain wanted an officer on the bowhead. If the Leviathan’s hosts made any hostile moves, the ship would drop all ballast and shoot into the air. The mooring cables would have to be cut loose—and fast.

  “I’ll be ready, sir,” Deryn said. “End message.”

  “That just proves my earlier point,” Miss Rogers said as the creature scuttled away. “If you want something done right, always ask the bell captain.”

  “Stop barking calling me that.”

  “I assure you, young man, it’s the highest compliment a hotel-raised girl can muster.”

  Deryn r
olled her eyes. And she’d thought Eddie Malone was annoying.

  Whoever had doctored the Leviathan’s fuel had done a precise job of it. The starboard engine had seized up only an hour away from Villa’s airfield. The tip of a mooring tower rose up from a steep-sided canyon, deep enough for the Leviathan to hide itself in. The canyon had only one narrow entrance, but a hundred rocky nooks and crannies along its sides.

  “A natural fortress,” Deryn said. “I take it this General Villa is one of the revolutionaries.”

  “He’s a rebel at heart.” Miss Rogers shrugged. “Though it’s complicated these days, more of a civil war than a revolution.”

  “But he’s using Clanker engines. Do the Germans have a hand in all this?”

  “All the powers are supplying one faction or another. The Great War has only raised the stakes.”

  Deryn sighed. Alek was right about one thing: One way or another, the war had sunk its claws into every nation on Earth. Even this distant conflict had been shaped by the war machines and fighting beasts of Europe.

  Another reason for Alek to feel bad, to think all the world’s troubles were his fault. Sometimes Deryn wished that she could burn the guilt out of his heart, or protect him from how awful the war was. Or at least make him forget somehow.

  As the Leviathan slowed to a halt, the bottom of the canyon came into view. A few Clanker engines aside, these rebels were definitely Darwinists. Patches of fabricated corn covered the ground in bright colors, and a high stone wall penned a herd of fabricated bulls the size of streetcars. Six-legged donkeys carried packs down the steep trails leading into the canyon, and a pair of squidesque airbeasts grazed on the nearby cliff tops, their languid tentacles clearing scrub grass and cacti. But on a high outcrop of rock a mile away was another bit of Clanker technology—a wireless tower.

  “So that’s how Hearst arranged all this.”

  Miss Rogers tutted. “Didn’t someone tell me that your Mr. Tesla was a radio wiz?”