“Rocket,” Bovril said, and crawled inside Alek’s coat.
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 rus 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 one, 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.”
The nightmare had come again.
It was the same as always—the heat, the smel
l of propane, the awful crackle of ropes snapping. Then falling to
the ground, pushed from the gondola by her da, and watching him soar away, burning in midair.
Deryn had known the dream was coming from the moment she’d closed her eyes. After all, she’d been watching as the rocket had climbed up from the dark water and struck the jitney, setting one of its flimsy balloons alight. The dreadful image hadn’t left her mind even when the messenger eagle had arrived half an hour later, carrying the news that all hands had survived.
So she’d lain there all night, drifting in and out of conflagrations.
As the sun rose at last, Deryn flung the covers from herself. It was no use pretending to sleep. Today was going to be its own nightmare.
“All hands” meant Eddie Malone was still alive. He’d no doubt made it to the offices of the World with his airgirl story in hand. The Leviathan was docked only forty miles from New York City. Once the British consulate spotted the story, the news would make its way here by the fastest messenger eagle they could find.
At least the captain was off the ship. Deryn doubted that the first officer would have the nerve to toss her into the brig without orders.
Still, the looks on her shipmates’ faces would be bad enough.
Twisted knee or not, Deryn decided to wear a decent uniform for when the officers came calling. She had just dressed when a knock came at her door.
She stood there, staring out the window. Was this it, then? The end of everything she’d worked for?
“Come in,” she said softly. But it was only the lady boffin, her loris, and Tazza.
“Good morning, Mr. Sharp.”
Deryn didn’t answer, just sck out her hand for Tazza to nuzzle.
Dr. Barlow frowned. “Are you unwell, Mr. Sharp? You look a bit peaked.”
“It’s just . . . I had a bad night’s sleep.”
“Poor dear. Our welcome to New York was unsettling, wasn’t it? But at least we had a bit of luck.”
“Aye, ma’am,” Deryn sighed. “Of course, if that bumrag Eddie Malone had been a bit less lucky, I might be happier.”
“Ah, I see.” Dr. Barlow pulled out the chair from Deryn’s desk and sat. “You find this morning’s news dismaying.”
Deryn swallowed. “News?”
“Of course. The whole ship is abuzz with the story.” Smiling, the lady boffin produced a neatly folded newspaper from her handbag.
“So it’s—it’s already . . . ,” Deryn sputtered. “And the officers sent you?”
“No one sent anyone, young man.” Dr. Barlow handed the paper over.
Deryn spread it out, her heart thudding in her chest, the bees inside her kneecap awake and angry. In the middle of the front page was a photograph of Alek looking sodden before the wrecked sky jitney, and below that a huge headline said:
SECRET HEIR TO AUSTRIA’S THRONE SURVIVES ROCKET ATTACK
Little wonder that the attempt on Alek’s life was the main story. And as her eyes traveled across the page, Deryn found articles asking whether German agents had been involved, asking whether they’d also meant to kill Nikola Tesla, and about an election for the city’s mayor.
“FRONT PAGE.”
There was, however, not a single word on the subject of Deryn Sharp.
She flipped through the next few pages, finding photographs of the Leviathan over Tokyo, the airship’s encounter with Pancho Villa, and the German ambassador denouncing the great inventor’s threats against the Clanker Powers. There was even a somewhat mad allegorical illustration of Tesla taming the Darwinist and Clanker Powers with electricity.
But still no mad airgirl.
Deryn groaned. “Malone’s just waiting, isn’t he?”
“I think you’re missing the point, young man. The first headline says it all.”
Deryn turned back to the front page, and stared.
“ ‘The Secret Heir to Austria’s Throne,’” she murmured, the words finally sinking in. “But how did Eddie Malone find out about the pope’s letter?”
Dr. Barlow tutted. “The pope’s letter? Hah! I suspected you knew about all this!”
“Aye, ma’am. Alek told me back in Istanbul.”
“Indeed. One might ask if everyone on this ship has a secret identity?”
“I hope not, ma’am. It’s quite a bother, you know.” Deryn shook her head. “But why would he tell that . . .”
“That bum-rag,” supplied the lady boffin’s loris politely.
Then, all in a flash, Deryn understood. Alek had made another trade. Just like in Istanbul, when Malone had been about to reveal the revolution’s plans, and Alek had agreed to tell his life story in exchange for the man’s keeping silent.
But this time he’d given up his secrets for her.
“Oh,” Deryn said softly.
“ ‘Oh,’ indeed,” the lady boffin said. “That was rather slow, Mr. Sharp. Are you sure you didn’t bump your head along with your knee?”
Deryn looked up from the newspaper. “Why are you calling me Mr. Sharp?”
“Because you would appear to be the midshipman of that name. And given this”—Dr. Barlow tapped the newspaper—“no one is likely to believe otherwise. Now please get ready. We shall be traveling within the hour.”
“Traveling, ma’am?”
“To New York City. The Serbian consulate is giving a party for Mr. Tesla and Prince Aleksandar this afternoon. A formal uniform is required, of course. I see you’ve managed to dress yourself.”
“Aye. But why are you dragging me along?”
“Mr. Sharp, you apparently have the ear—perhaps even the affections, though I shudder to think it—of the legal heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary.” Dr. Barlow snapped for Tazza. “As long as your little skeleton remains in the closet, the Zoological Society of London shall have many uses for you. Now get ready, Mr. Sharp.”
“Mr. Sharp,” her loris said.
The ride across the Hudson River was splendid—the Statue of Liberty standing tall to the south, the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan ahead. Even the ferry’s engine smoke pouring out across the blue sky looked rather grand. Deryn had grown used to Clanker engines over the last three months, she supposed, just as Alek had become a bit of a Darwinist. The rumble of the motors through her body felt almost natural now, and seemed to soothe her injured knee.
She and Dr. Barlow—and their marine escort—were met by an armored walker at the ferry docks. It was smaller than a proper war machine, nimble enough for the crowded streets of New York, but definitely bulletproof. After the attack night, no one from the Leviathan would be venturing out unprotected. Deryn’s rigging knife waited in a sheath inside her jacket, and the walking cane that Klopp had made for her was topped with a brass ball the size of an empress plum.
She might be dodgy in one leg, but Deryn reckoned she still had a bit of fight left.
The walker made its way through teeming crowds and beneath elevated trains. As they traveled north, the buildings grew shorter and were more like the row houses of London than skyscrapers. The air was clearer here than in Istanbul, the city driven more by electricity than steam, thanks to the influence of Tesla and the other great American inventor, Mr. Thomas Edison.
At last the walker reached the Serbian consulate, a large and solemn stone building with a line of policemen stretched along the footpath outside.
“Blisters. They look ready for trouble.” Deryn turned from the small windows. “But the Germans wouldn’t be daft enough to start a fight in the middle of Manhattan, would they?”
“The Germans will test President Wilson’s patience, I’m sure,” the lady boffin answered. “But the country is divided. There may have been hard words for Germany in the New York World this morning, but Mr. Hearst’s papers called the attack the work of anarchists, not Clankers.”
“Hmph,” Deryn said. “Maybe that bum-rag really is a German agent.”
“Mr. Hearst certainly dislikes the British.” The walker lumbered to a halt, and Dr. Barlow began to straighten herself. “And the Germans know that one stray rocket won’t
drag America into war.”
Deryn frowned. “Ma’am, do you reckon the Germans were after Alek? Or are they more worried about Mr. Tesla?”
“Last night I’d guess they wanted Tesla.” Dr. Barlow sighed. “But after reading this morning’s papers, their priorities may shift.”
Within the consulate walls it was easy to forget the armed policemen outside. White-gloved butlers in velvet tails took the lady boffin’s hat and traveling coat, and the strains of dance music echoed from the marble walls. At a short staircase past the entryway, Dr. Barlow kindly took Deryn’s arm, lifting a bit of weight off her bad knee.
The beastie on Deryn’s wound had done its work quickly, and she could walk without limping now, but she was still glad for her cane. The sounds of voices and music grew as a butler guided them through the consulate to a large and crowded ballroom.
The party was in full swing. Half the gentlemen were in military uniforms, the other half in morning dress—striped trousers and tailcoats. The ladies wore soft pastels, a few hemlines rising to the daring height of midcalf. Deryn’s aunties would have been scandalized, but perhaps it was only another sign that American women were changing fast.
Of course, that all mattered less to Deryn now that her secret was safe again. She wouldn’t be staying here in America, but heading off with Dr. Barlow to work for her mysterious Society. Deryn had been so relieved this morning that it had taken day for that simple fact to sink in—when the Leviathan departed for London tonight, she would be leaving Alek behind.
Just as the thought struck her, there he was across the ballroom, with Bovril on his shoulder, standing beside Tesla in a group of fawning civilians.
“Pardon me, ma’am.”
Dr. Barlow followed Deryn’s gaze. “Ah, yes, of course. But do be . . . diplomatic, Mr. Sharp.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Deryn said. “But I’ve been diplomatic enough to fool you these last three months.”
Goliath (Leviathan Trilogy) Page 25
