Scott Westerfeld - Leviathan

And really, walker falls weren’t so bad. They’d all be bruised and battered, but Master Klopp could get the machine back on its feet again.

As the engines pulsed faster, the smell of their exhaust mixed with dust and hay. Alek eased the machine forward, wood creaking as the walker pushed through the doors and out into the fresh air.

“Smoothly done, young master!” Klopp said.

There was no time to answer. They were in the open now. Alek brought the Stormwalker to its full height, its engines cycling to their maximum. He urged it forward, stretching the metal legs farther with every step. Then came the moment when walking turned to running: both feet in the air at once, the cabin shuddering with every impact against the ground.

Alek heard rye being shredded underfoot. The Storm-walker’s trail would be easy to spot from an aeroplane, but by night the harvesting combine would turn back and erase the huge footprints.

He kept his eyes on the goal, a streambed covered with sheltering trees.

This was the fastest he had ever traveled, faster than any horse, even faster than the express train to Berlin. Each ten-meter stride seemed to stretch out over endless seconds, graceful in the vast scale of the machine. The thundering pace felt glorious after long nights spent creeping through the forest.

But as the streambed approached, Alek wondered if the walker was moving too fast. How was he supposed to bring them to a halt?

He eased back on the saunters a bit—and suddenly everything went wrong. The right foot planted too soon … and the machine began to tip forward.

Alek brought the left leg down, but the walker’s momentum carried it forward. He was forced to take another step, like a careening drunk, unable to stop.

“Young master—,” Otto began.

“Take it!” Alek shouted.

Klopp seized the saunters and twisted the walker, stretching one leg out, tipping the whole craft back. The pilot’s chair spun, and Volger swung wildly from the hand straps overhead, but somehow Klopp stayed glued to the controls.

The Stormwalker skidded onward, one leg outstretched, its front foot ripping through soil and stalks of rye. Dust spilled into the cabin, and Alek glimpsed the streambed hurtling toward them.

Gradually the machine slowed, a last bit of momentum lifting it upright … and then it was standing on two legs, hidden among the trees, its huge feet soaking in the stream.

Alek watched dust and torn rye swirl across the viewport. A moment later his hands began to shake.

“Well done, young master!” Klopp said, clapping him on the back.

“But I almost fell!”

“Of course you did!” Klopp laughed. “Everyone falls the first time they try to run.”

“Everyone what ?”

“Everyone falls. But you did the right thing and let me take the controls in time.”

Volger flicked sprigs of rye from his jacket. “It seems that humility was the rather tiresome point of today’s lesson. Along with making sure we look like proper commoners.”

“Humility?” Alek bunched his fists. “You mean you knew I would fall?”

“Of course,” Klopp said. “As I said, everyone does at first. But you gave up the saunters in time. That’s a lesson too!”

Alek scowled. Klopp was positively beaming at him, as if Alek had just mastered a somersault in a six-legged cutter. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or give the man a good thrashing.

He settled for coughing some of the dust out of his lungs, then taking back the controls. The Stormwalker responded normally. It seemed nothing more important than his pride had been damaged.

“You did better than I expected,” Klopp said. “Especially with how top-heavy we are.”

“Top-heavy?” Alek asked.

“Ah, well.” Klopp looked at Volger sheepishly. “I suppose not really.”

Count Volger sighed. “Go ahead, Klopp. If we’re going to be teaching His Highness walker acrobatics, I suppose it might help to show him the extra cargo.”

Klopp nodded, a wicked smile on his face. He pulled himself from the commander’s seat and knelt by a small engineering panel in the floor. “Give me a hand, young master?”

A little curious now, Alek knelt beside him, and together they loosened the hand screws. The panel popped up, and Alek blinked—instead of wires and gears, the opening revealed neat rectangles of dully shining metal, each monogrammed with the Hapsburg seal.

“Are those … ?”

“Gold bars,” Klopp said happily. “A dozen of them. Almost a quart of a ton in all!”

“God’s wounds,” Alek breathed.

“The contents of your father’s personal safe,” Count Volger said. “Entrusted to us as part of your inheritance. We won’t lack for money.”

“I suppose not.” Alek sat back. “So this is your little secret, Count? I must admit I’m impressed.”

“This is merely an afterthought.” Volger waved a hand, and Klopp began to seal the panel back up. “The real secret is in Switzerland.”

“A quarter ton of gold, an afterthought ?” Alek looked up at the man. “Are you serious?”

Count Volger raised an eyebrow. “I am always serious. Shall we go?”

Alek pulled himself back up into the pilot’s chair, wondering what other surprises the wildcount had waiting.

Alek started them down the streambed toward Lienz, the nearest city with any mechanikal industry. The walker desperately needed kerosene and parts, and with a dozen gold bars, they could buy the whole town if need be. The trick was not giving themselves away. A Cyklop Storm-walker was a fairly conspicuous way to travel.

Alek kept the machine in the trees along the stream bank. With the afternoon light already fading, they could steal close enough to reach the city on foot tomorrow.

It was strange to think that in the morning, for the first time in two weeks, Alek would see other people. Not just these four men but an entire town of commoners, none of whom would realize that a prince was walking among them.

He coughed again, and looked down at his dusty disguise of farmer’s clothes. Volger had been right—he was as filthy as a peasant now. No one would think he was anything special. Certainly not a boy with a vast fortune in gold.

Klopp beside him was equally grubby, but still wore a pleased smile on his face.

Even though Mr. Rigby had said not to, Deryn Sharp looked down.

A thousand feet below, the sea was in motion. Huge waves rolled across the surface, the wind tearing white moonlit spray from their peaks. And yet up here, clinging to the Leviathan ’s flank in the dark, the wind was still. Just like in the airflow diagrams, a layer of calm wrapped around the huge beastie.

Calm or not, Deryn’s fingers clutched the rigging tighter as she gazed at the sea. It looked cold and wet down there. And, as Mr. Rigby had pointed out many times over the last fortnight, the water’s surface was as hard as stone if you were falling fast enough.

Tiny cilia pulsed and rippled through the ropes, tickling her fingers. Deryn slipped one hand free and pressed her palm against the beast’s warmth. The membrane felt taut and healthy, with no whiff of hydrogen leaking out.

“Taking a rest, Mr. Sharp?” called Rigby. “We’re only halfway up.”

“Just listening, sir,” she answered. The older officers said the hum of the membrane could tell you everything about an airship. The Leviathan ’s skin vibrated with the thrumming of the engines, the shufflings of ballast lizards inside, even the voices of the crew around her.

“ Dawdling , you mean,” the bosun shouted. “This is a combat drill! Get climbing, Mr. Sharp!”

“Yes, sir!” she replied, though there wasn’t much point in rushing. The other five middies were still behind her. They were the ones dawdling, pausing to clip their safety harnesses to the ratlines every few feet. Deryn climbed free, like the older riggers, except when she was swinging from the airbeast’s underside—