Goliath (Leviathan Trilogy)

by Scott Westerfeld

  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 theleg 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.

  “PANCHO VILLA.”

  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, Doctormet 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.

  When Alek slipped between the swaying tarps, he found only Deryn and Dr.

  Azuela inside. The ground men had swiftly thrown up a cot for Deryn and a case for the doctor’s instruments. But now they had gone back to their ropes, and the growl of the winches drawing the ship down had started up again. Bovril was wrapped around Deryn’s neck, purring softly.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve had worse,” Deryn said, but her eyes stayed fixed on the doctor’s fingers as they probed her arm.

  “It isn’t broken,” the man said. “But this cut is bad. I need to sew it up. Take off your shirt.”

  “I can’t,” Deryn said softly. “My arm won’t move.”

  The doctor frowned, feeling carefully along her forearm again.
“But a moment ago you made a fist.”

  “Just cut the sleeve off,” Alek said, kneeling beside them. “I’ll help you.”

  Dr. Azuela’s wary gaze traveled from Deryn to Alek as he reached into his bag. He pulled out a pair of scissors and snipped through the cuff of the middy’s uniform, then up her arm. Her pale skin was slick with blood.

  Deryn drew in a sharp breath—the doctor’s free hand had brushed her chest. Azuela frowned, hesitating a moment. Then, with a flash, the scissors had reversed in his hand. The points quivered at her throat.

  “What’s under your shirt?” he demanded.

  “Nothing!” Deryn said.

  “There’s something strapped there. You’re wearing a bomb! ¡Asesino!”

  “You’re wrong,” Bovril said quite clearly.

  Azuela stared at the beast, dumbfounded and frozen.

  “It’s all right, Doctor.” Alek raised his hands in surrender. “Deryn, just take off your shirt.”

  She stared dumbly at him, shaking her head.

  Dr. Azuela tore his eyes from the loris. “You’re here to kill Pancho! You meant to fly down onto him with a bomb!”

  “She isn’t an assassin,” Alek said.

  The doctor stared up at him.

  “She,” Bovril said.

  “Deryn is a girl. That’s why she’s bound like that.” Alek ignored the look of despair on her face. “See for yourself.”

  “THE DOCTOR’S SUSPICIONS.”

  With the scissors still at her throat, Dr. Azuela felt her again. Deryn flinched, and his eyes widened as he yanked his hand away.

  “¡Lo siento, señorita!”

  Deryn opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her fists clenched, and she began to shake. Alek knelt beside her, gently opening one of her hands to hold it.

  “Please don’t tell anyone, sir,” he said.

  The doctor shook his head. “But why?”

  “She wants to serve—to fly.” Alek reached into his inner pocket, the one the pope’s letter always occupied. Beside the scroll case his fingers found a small cloth bag and pulled it free.

  “Here.” Alek handed it to the man. “For your silence.”

  Dr. Azuela opened the bag, and found the sliver of gold—all that remained of the quarter ton that Alek’s father had left him. He stared at it a moment, then shook his head. “I have to tell Pancho.”

  “Please,” Deryn said softly.

  “He is our commander.” He turned to Deryn. “But only him, I promise.”

  Dr. Azuela called in one of the rebels from outside and gave an order in rapid-fire Spanish. Then he set to work, cleaning the wound with a rag and liquid from a small silver flask, sterilizing a needle and thread, then handing the flask to Deryn. As she drank, he drew the needle through the skin of her arm, pulling the wound closed stitch by stitch.

  Alek watched, keeping his hand in Deryn’s. She squeezed hard, her nails cutting half moons into his flesh.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  After all, why should a great rebel leader care if a girl had hidden herself in the British Air Service?

  Before Azuela had finished, a gust of air from outside sent the canvas around them swaying. It was one of the great bulls snorting, like an exhalation of steam from a freight train.

  The tarps parted, and General Villa stepped inside. “¿Está muriendo?”

  “No, he will mend.” The doctor’s eyes didn’t leave his work. “But he has an interesting secret to tell you. You may wish to sit down.”

  Villa sighed, settling cross-legged next to Alek. On horseback he had seemed quite graceful, but now he looked a bit thick about the middle. He move deliberately, perhaps with a touch of rheumatism.

  “Tell him,” Dr. Azuela said.

  Deryn looked exhausted, but her voice was firm. “I’m Deryn Sharp, decorated officer in His Majesty’s Air Service. But I’m not a man.”

  “Ah.” Villa’s eyebrows rose a little as he looked her up and down. “Forgive me, Señorita Sharp. I didn’t know the British use women for their glider troops. Because you are small, yes?”

  “That’s not it, sir,” Deryn said. “This is a secret.”

  “Deryn’s father was an airman,” Alek explained. “Her brother is too. She dresses as a boy because it’s the only way she can fly.”

  General Villa stared at Deryn for a moment, then a snort of laughter rippled through his body. “¡Qué engaño!”

  “Please don’t tell anyone,” Alek said. “At least not for a few hours, until we’ve gone. It’s nothing to you, whether you turn her in. But to her it’s everything.”

  The man shook his head in wonder, then raised an eyebrow at Alek. “And what is your part in this joke, little prince?”

  “He’s my friend,” Deryn said. Her face was still pale, but her voice sounded stronger now. She offered Villa the flask.

  He waved it away. “Only a friend?”

  Deryn didn’t answer, staring down at the fresh stitches in her arm. Alek opened his mouth, but Bovril spoke first: “Ally.”

  General Villa gave the loris a curious look. “What is this beast?”

  “A perspicacious loris.” Deryn reached up and stroked its head. “It repeats things, a bit like a message lizard.”

  “It does not only repeat,” Dr. Azuela said. “It told me I was wrong.”

  Alek frowned—he’d noticed that as well. As the weeks had passed, the lorises’ memories had grown longer. They sometimes parroted things from days before, or that they’d heard only from each other. It wasn’t always clear now where a word or phrase had come from.

  “That’s because it’s perspicacious,” Deryn said. “In other words, it’s clever.”

  “Dead clever,” Bovril said, and Villa stared at it again, his brown eyes marveling.

  “Tienen oro,” Dr. Azuela said into the silence.

  Alek’s Italian was sufficient for him to understand the word for “gold.” He pulled out the small bag again. “It’s not much, but we can pay for your silence.”

  General Villa took the bag and opened it, then laughed. “The richest man in California sends me guns! And you tempt me with this gold toothpick?”

  “Then, what do you wanp>

  The man’s eyes narrowed on Alek. “Señor Hearst says you are a nephew of the old emperor, Maximilian.”

  “A grandnephew, but yes.”

  “Emperors are vain and useless things. We did not need one, so we shot him.”

  “Yes, I know the story.” Alek swallowed. “Perhaps it was a bit presumptuous, putting an Austrian on the throne of Mexico.”

  “It was an insult to the people. But your uncle was brave at the end. In front of the firing squad, he wished that his blood should be the last to flow for freedom.” General Villa looked at the red-stained rag in Dr. Azuela’s hand. “Sadly, it was not.”

  “Indeed,” Alek said. “That was fifty years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Sí. Too much blood since then.” Villa tossed the bag back to Alek and turned to Deryn. “Keep your secret, little sister. But be more careful the next time you jump off your ship.”

  “Aye, I’ll try.”

  “And be careful of young princes. The first man I ever shot was as rich as a prince, and it was for my sister’s honor.” General Villa laughed again. “But you are a soldier, Señorita Sharp—you can shoot men for yourself, can’t you?”

  Deryn gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s crossed my mind, once or twice. But pardon me, sir. If you don’t like emperors, where did you get those German walkers?”

  “The kaiser sells us arms.” General Villa patted the Mauser pistol on his belt. “Sometimes he gives us arms, so we are his friends when the Yankees join the war, I think. But we will never bow to him.”

  “Aye, emperors are a bit pointless, aren’t they?” Deryn sat up straighter and held out her right hand. “Thank you for not telling.”

  “Your secret is safe, hermanita.” General Villa shook her hand,
then rose to his feet, but suddenly his eyes narrowed and his hand went to his gun. A shadow loomed against the tarp.

  Villa reached up and flung the canvas aside, pointing his pistol into the beaming unshaven face of Eddie Malone.

  “Dylan Sharp, Deryn Sharp . . . of course! Well, I can’t say I had a clue, but it sure explains a lot.” The man rubbed his hands together and then thrust one at Pancho Villa. “Eddie Malone, reporter for the New York World.”

  The cut on Deryn’s arm wasn’t much in the end, just eleven neat stitches

  that hardly itched at all. But she was going to feel her injured knee for a long time.

  >

  Most often the ache was simple and honest, as if she’d bashed it on the corner of an iron bed frame. Other times the whole leg throbbed, like her growing pains back when she’d been only twelve and already taller than half the boys in Glasgow. But the worst agony came at night, when her kneecap buzzed and thrummed like a bottle full of bees.

  The buzzing was probably thanks to Dr. Busk’s compress. It wasn’t mustard seed and oats like her aunties favored, but a wee fabricated beastie of some kind. It had attached itself to her skin like a barnacle, its tendrils creeping inside to heal the ligaments torn in the crash. The surgeon hadn’t said what life threads the compress was fabricated from, but it lived on sugar water and a bit of sunlight every day—half plant and half animal, most likely.

  Whatever the beastie was, it got annoyed when Deryn moved. Even a squick of weight on the leg was punished with an hour of angry bees. Walking was a nightmare and dressing was tricky, and of course she could hardly ask for help with that.

  If it hadn’t been for Alek, the whole crew would’ve learned her secret that first day. It was Alek who’d persuaded General Villa to stay silent, and had convinced the officers that Deryn could stay in her own cabin, not the sick bay, even though it meant Alek had to fetch meals from the galley himself. It was Alek who half carried her to the heads in the dark gastric channel several times a day, standing guard at a gentlemanly distance while she went. And it was Alek who kept her company so she didn’t go stark raving mad.