Goliath l-3

by Scott Westerfeld

  Alek, Dylan, Bauer, and Hoffman had worked without sleep, but Master Klopp had spent most of the night snoozing in a chair, awakening only to shout orders and curse whoever had designed the device. He had declared its graceful lines too fancy, an affront to Clanker principles. Bovril sat on his shoulder, memorizing new German obscenities with glee.

  Since the night of the Ottoman Revolution, Klopp had used a cane, grimacing whenever he had to stand up. His battle-walker had fallen during the attack on the sultan’s Tesla cannon, struck by the Orient-Express itself.

  “ASSEMBLAGE OF THE DEVICE.”

  Dr. Busk, the Leviathan’s surgeon, had said it was lucky the man could walk at all.

  The revolution had lasted only one night, but the cost had been high. Lilit’s father had been killed, along with a thousand rebel soldiers and countless Ottomans. Whole neighborhoods of the ancient city of Istanbul lay in ashes.

  Of course, the battles going on in Europe were ten times worse, especially those between Alek’s countrymen and the Russians. In Galicia a horde of fighting bears had met hundreds of machines, a vast collision of flesh and metal that had left Austria reeling. And, as Dylan kept saying, the war was only just beginning.

  Newkirk brought them breakfast just as sunlight began to trickle in around the edges of the cargo door.

  “What in blazes is that contraption?” he asked.

  Alek took the coffeepot from Newkirk’s tray and poured a cup.

  “A good question.” He handed the coffee to Klopp, switching to German. “Any fresh ideas?”

  “Well, it’s meant to be carried about,” Klopp said, poking at its long side handles with his cane. “Probably by two men, perhaps a third to operate it.”

  Alek nodded. Most of the crates had been full of spare parts and special tools; the device itself wasn’t so heavy.

  “But why not mount it on a vehicle?” Hoffman asked. “You could use the engine’s power and save fiddling about with batteries.”

  “So it’s designed for rough terrain,” Klopp said.

  “Lots of that in Siberia,” Dylan spoke up. After a month among Clankers in Istanbul, the boy’s German was good enough to follow most conversations now. “And Russia is Darwinist, so vehicles have no engines.”

  Alek frowned. “A Clanker machine designed for use by Darwinists?”

  “Custom made for wherever we’re headed, then.” Klopp gently tapped the three glass spheres at its top. “These will react to magnetic fields.”

  “Magnetic,” Bovril said from Klopp’s shoulder, rolling the word around in its mouth.

  Ignoring the engine grease under his fingernails, Alek took a piece of bacon from Newkirk’s tray. The night’s work had left him ravenous. “Meaning what, Master Klopp?”

  “I still don’t know, young master. Perhaps it’s some kind of navigating machine.”

  “Awfully big for a compass,” Alek said. And far too beautiful for anything so mundane. Most of the pieces had been milled by hand, as if its inventor hadn’t wanted mass-produced parts to sully his vision.

  “If I may ask something, sir?” Bauer asked.

  Alek nodded. “Of course, Hans.”

  Bauer turned to Dylan. “We might understand this machine better if we knew why the czar tried to sneak it past you.”

  “Dr. Barlow reckons the czar doesn’t know about this machine,” Dylan said. “You see, the man we’re headed toward has a reputation. He’s a bit mad. The sort of fellow who might bribe a Russian officer to smuggle something for him, without thinking of the consequences. The lady boffin never liked the fellow, she says, and this just confirms that he’s a…” He shrugged and switched to English, “A bum-rag.”

  “Bum-rag,” Bovril said, and giggled.

  “But who is he?” Alek asked in English.

  Dylan shrugged again. “A Clanker boffin of some kind. That’s all Dr. Barlow will say.”

  Alek finished his bacon, then looked at the parts scattered all around them and sighed. “Well, let’s finish and see what happens when we turn it on.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Dylan looked down at the batteries, which Hoffman was charging with the power lines for the airship’s searchlights. “It’s stored enough electricity to throw sparks, or even explode. And we’re hanging from a million cubic feet of hydrogen!”

  Alek turned to Klopp and said in German, “Dylan thinks this could be dangerous.”

  “Nonsense.” Klopp prodded the battery case with his cane. “It’s designed to run for a long time at low voltage.”

  “Or designed to look that way,” Dylan said, then switched to English. “Newkirk, fetch Dr. Barlow, would you?”

  The other middy nodded and scampered off, looking happy to leave the Clanker device behind.

  As they waited, Alek put together the control panel, polishing every piece with his sleeve. It was good to feel useful again, to have built something, even if he had no idea what it was.

  When Dr. Barlow arrived, she walked once around the machine, both she and the creature on her shoulder inspecting it closely. The two lorises jabbered to each other, Bovril repeating the names of electrikal parts that it had learned during the night.

  “Well done, all of you,” Dr. Barlow said in her flawless German. “I take it this is a magnetic device of some kind?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Klopp glanced at Dylan. “And I’m certain it won’t explode.”

  “I should hope not.” Dr. Barlow took a step back. “Well, we haven’t much time. If you please, Alek, let’s find out what it does.”

  “If you please,” her loris added imperiously, which made Bovril giggle.

  Alek took a slow breath, his hand pausing over the power switch. For a moment he wondered if Dylan might be right. They had no idea what this machine was.

  But they’d spent all night putting the device together. There was no point in letting it sit here. He turned the power switch….

  For a moment nothing happened, but then a flickering glow appeared in each of the three glass spheres on the machine’s top. In the drafty cargo bay Alek felt heat emanating from the machine, and a soft whine built in his ears.

  The two lorises began to imitate the sound, and then Tazza joined in, until the cargo bay was humming. A sliver of light came into being inside each of the glass spheres, an electrikal disturbance, like a tiny, trapped bolt of lightning.

  “Most intriguing,” Dr. Barlow said.

  “Aye, but what is it?” Dylan asked.

  “As a biologist, I’m sure I don’t know.” The lady boffin lifted Bovril from Klopp’s shoulder. “But our perspicacious friend has been watching and listening all night.”

  She placed the loris on the floor. It immediately clambered onto the machine, sniffing the batteries, the control panel, and finally the three glass spheres. While it moved, it kept up a steady nonsense conversation with Dr. Barlow’s loris, the two beasts repeating the names of electrikal parts and concepts to each other.

  Alek watched with bemusement. He’d always wondered how Dr. Barlow had expected these creatures to keep the Ottomans out of the war. They were charming enough but hardly likely to sway an entire empire toward Darwinism. He half suspected they had been only a ruse, an excuse to take the Leviathan to Istanbul, and that the real plan had always been to force the strait with the behemoth.

  But was there more to these lorises than met the eye?

  Finally Bovril reached out a hand toward Dr. Barlow, who only frowned. But the beast on her shoulder seemed to understand. It slipped its tiny hands behind the woman’s head and unclasped her necklace.

  Dr. Barlow raised an eyebrow as the creature handed her jewelry over to Bovril.

  “What in blazes—,” Dylan began, but the lady boffin waved him silent.

  Bovril held the necklace close to one of the glass spheres, and a trickle of lightning leapt out, creating a shivering connection between the pendant and the glass sphere.

  “Magnetic,” Bovril said.

  The creature swung
the pendant, and the tiny finger of light followed it back and forth. When Bovril pulled the necklace away, the lightning seemed to lose interest, retreating back into its glass sphere.

  “God’s wounds,” Alek said softly. “That’s quite odd.”

  “What’s that necklace made of, madam?” asked Klopp.

  “The pendant is steel.” Dr. Barlow nodded. “Quite ferrous, I should think.”

  “So it’s for detecting metal.” Klopp pushed himself to his feet, then brought his cane up. As its steel tip drew close to one of the spheres, another trickle of lightning leapt out to meet it.

  “Why would you need such a thing?” Dylan asked.

  Klopp fell back into his chair. “You might use it to discover land mines. Though it’s quite sensitive, so perhaps you could find a buried telegraph line. Or a buried treasure! Who knows?”

  “Treasure!” Bovril declared.

  “Telegraph lines? Pirate treasure?” Dylan shook his head. “Those hardly sound like things you’d find in Siberia.”

  Alek took a cautious step closer, squinting at the machine. The three glass spheres had settled into a jittering pattern, each tiny finger of lightning pointing in a different direction. “What’s it detecting now?”

  “One’s aimed straight back at the stern,” Dylan said. “And the other two are pointed up and toward the bow.”

  The two lorises made a rumbling sound.

  “Of course,” Hoffman said. “Most of the Leviathan is wood and flesh. But the engines are full of metal.”

  Dylan whistled. “They must be two hundred yards away.”

  “Yes, it’s a clever machine,” Klopp said. “Even if it was designed by a madman.”

  “I just wonder what he’s looking for.” The lady boffin stroked Tazza’s fur as she contemplated the device, then turned and walked toward the door. “Well, I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. Mr. Sharp, see that all this is hidden away in a locked storeroom. And please don’t mention it to the crew, any of you.”

  Alek frowned. “But won’t this… boffin fellow be wondering where it is?”

  “Indeed.” Dr. Barlow gave him a smile as she slipped through the door. “And watching him squirm with curiosity should prove most interesting.”

  Alek headed back toward his stateroom soon after, wanting to get an hour’s sleep before they arrived at their destination. He should have gone straight to Count Volger, he supposed, but he was too exhausted to endure a barrage of questions from the man. So instead Alek whistled for a message lizard when he reached his room.

  When the creature appeared, Alek said, “Count Volger, we shall arrive at our destination within the hour. But I still have no idea where that is. The cargo contained a Clanker machine of some kind. More later, when I’ve had some sleep. End message.”

  Alek smiled as the creature scuttled away into its tube. He’d never sent Volger a message lizard before, but it was high time the man accepted that the beasts were part of life here aboard the Leviathan.

  Not bothering to remove his boots, Alek stretched out on his bunk. His eyes closed, but he could still see the glass tubes and shining metal parts of the mysterious device. His exhausted mind began to play a game of putting together its pieces, counting screws and measuring with calipers.

  He groaned, wishing the thoughts would let him sleep. But mechanikal puzzles had taken over his brain. Perhaps this proved he was a Clanker at heart and there would never be a place for him aboard a Darwinist ship.

  Alek sat up to pull off his jacket. There was something large in the pocket. Of course. The newspaper he’d borrowed from Volger.

  He pulled it out; it was folded open to the photograph of Dylan. In all the excitement about the strange device, he’d forgotten to show it to the boy. Alek lay back down, his bleary eyes skimming across the text.

  It really was the most atrocious writing, as breathless and overblown as the articles Malone had written about Alek. But it was a relief to see someone else’s virtues extolled in the reporter’s purple prose.

  Who knows what rampant destruction might have been visited upon the crowd had the valiant midshipman not acted so quickly? He surely has bravery running in his veins, being the nephew of an intrepid airman, one Artemis Sharp, who perished in a calamitous ballooning fire only a few years ago.

  A little shudder went through Alek at the words—Dylan’s father again. It was strange how the man kept coming up. Was there some clue about the family secret here?

  Alek shook his head, dropping the newspaper to the floor. Dylan would tell him the family secret when he was ready.

  More important, Alek hadn’t slept a wink all night. He lay back down, forcing his eyes closed again. The airship would reach its destination soon.

  But as Alek lay there, his mind would not stop spinning.

  So many times Dylan would come close to telling him something momentous. But each time he pulled away. No matter what promises Alek made, however many secrets of his own he told Dylan, the boy didn’t trust him completely.

  Perhaps he never would, because he simply couldn’t bring himself to confide in a prince, an imperial heir, a waste of hydrogen like Alek. No doubt that was it.

  It was a long, restless time before he finally fell asleep.

  SIX

  It was Newkirk who spotted them first.

  He was up in a Huxley ascender, a thousand feet above the Leviathan in the cold white sky. His flight suit was stuffed with old rags to keep him from freezing, making his arms and legs bulge, like a tattie bogle waving semaphore flags….

  T-R-E-E-S—A-L-L—D-O-W-N—A-H-E-A-D.

  Deryn lowered her field glasses. “Did you get that, Mr. Rigby?”

  “Aye,” the bosun said. “But I’ve no idea what it means.”

  “T-R-E-E-S,” Bovril added helpfully from Deryn’s shoulder. The beastie could read semaphore as fast as any of the crew, but couldn’t turn letters into words. Not yet, anyway.

  “Perhaps he’s seen a clearing. Shall I go up to the bow for a look, sir?”

  Mr. Rigby nodded, then signaled to the winch man to give Newkirk more altitude. Deryn headed forward, making her way through the colony of fléchette bats scattered across the great airbeast’s head.

  “D-O-W-N,” Bovril said.

  “Aye, beastie, that spells ‘down.’”

  Bovril repeated the word, then shivered in the cold.

  Deryn was feeling the cold too, on top of her night of missing sleep. Barking Alek and his love of contraptions. Sixteen long hours putting the mysterious machine together, and they still had no idea what its purpose was! An utter waste of time, and yet it was the happiest she’d seen Alek since the two of them had returned to the Leviathan.

  Gears and electricals were all the boy really cared about, however much he claimed to love the airship. Just like Deryn, who’d spent a whole month in Istanbul without ever feeling at home among walkers and steam pipes. Perhaps Clankers and Darwinists would always be at war, if only in their hearts.

  When she reached the prow of the ship, Deryn raised her field glasses to scan the horizon. A moment later she saw the trees.

  “Barking spiders.” The words coiled like smoke in the freezing air.

  “Down,” Bovril said.

  Ahead of the airship was an endless fallen forest. Countless trees lay on their sides, plucked clean, as if a huge wind had blown them over and stripped their branches and leaves. Strangest of all, every stripped-bare trunk was pointed in the same direction: southwest. At the moment, straight at Deryn.

  She’d heard of hurricanes strong enough to yank trees up from the ground, but no hurricane could make landfall here, thousands of miles from any ocean. Was there some manner of Siberian storm she’d never heard of, with icicles flying like scythes through the forest?

  She whistled for a message lizard, staring uneasily at the fallen trees while she waited. When the lizard appeared, Deryn made her report, trying to keep the fear from her voice. Whatever had cut down these full-grown everg
reens, which had been as hard as nails and sunk deep into the frozen tundra, would tear an airship to bits in seconds.

  She made her way back to the winch, where Mr. Rigby was still taking signals from Newkirk. The Huxley was almost a mile above the ship now, its swollen hydrogen sack a dark squick upon the sky.

  The bosun dropped his glasses. “At least thirty miles across, he says.”

  “Blisters,” Deryn swore. “Might an earthquake have done this, sir?”

  Mr. Rigby gave this a think, then shook his head. “Mr. Newkirk says all the fallen trees point outward, toward the edges of the destruction. No earthquake would’ve been that neat. Nor would a storm.”

  Deryn imagined a great force spreading out in all directions from a central point, knocking down trees and stripping them as clean as matchsticks as it passed.

  An explosion…

  “But we can’t stand here theorizing.” Mr. Rigby raised his field glasses again. “The captain has ordered us to prepare for a rescue. There are people down there, it seems.”

  A quarter hour later Newkirk’s flags began to wave again.

  “B… O… N… E… S,” Bovril announced, its sharp eyes needing no field glasses to read the distant signals.

  “God in heaven,” Mr. Rigby breathed.

  “But he can’t mean ‘bones,’ sir,” Deryn said. “He’s too high up to see anything as small as that!”

  She stared ahead, trying to think what letters poor shivering Newkirk might have sent wrong. Domes? Homes? Was he was begging for some hot scones to be sent up?

  Deryn wished she could be aloft herself, and not stuck down here wondering. But the captain wanted her standing by for a gliding descent, to prepare for a landing in rough terrain.

  “Did you feel that shudder, lad?” Mr. Rigby pulled off a glove, kneeling to place his bare hand on the ship’s skin. “The airbeast is unhappy.”

  “Aye, sir.” Another shiver passed along the cilia on the membrane, like a gust of wind through grass. Deryn smelled something in the air, the scent of corrupted meat.