Scott Westerfeld: Leviathan

He pushed on both saunters, the left leg pulling at whatever had entangled it, the right straining forward. The Daimler engines groaned, and metal joints hissed. Finally a shudder passed through the cabin, along with the satisfying sound of roots tearing from the ground— the Stormwalker rising up. It stood high for a moment, like a chicken on one leg, then stepped forward again.

Alek’s shaking hands guided the walker through its next few strides.

“Well done, young master!” Otto cried. He clapped his hands once.

“Thank you, Klopp,” Alek said in a dry voice, feeling sweat trickle down his face. His hands clenched the saunters tight, but the machine was walking smoothly again.

Gradually he forgot that he was at the controls, feeling the steps as if they were his own. The sway of the cabin settled into his body, the rhythms of gears and pneumatics not so different from his runabout’s, only louder. Alek had even begun to see patterns in the flickering needles of the control panel—a few leapt into the red with every footfall, easing back as the walker straightened. Knee pressure, indeed.

But the sheer power of the machine kept him anxious. Heat from the engines built in the cabin, the night air blowing in like cold fingers. Alek tried to imagine what piloting would be like in battle, with the viewport half shut against flying bullets and shrapnel.

Finally the pine branches cleared before them, and Klopp said, “Turn here and we’ll have better footing, young master.”

“Isn’t this one of Mother’s riding paths?” Alek said. “She’ll have my hide if we track it up!” Whenever one of Princess Sophie’s horses stumbled on a walker footprint, Master Klopp, Alek, and even Father felt her wrath for days.

But he eased back on the throttle, grateful for a moment of rest, bringing the Stormwalker to a halt on the trail. Inside his piloting jacket Alek was soaked with sweat.

“Disagreeable in every way, Your Highness,” Volger said. “But necessary if we’re to make good time tonight.”

Alek turned to Otto Klopp and frowned. “Make good time? But this is just practice. We’re not going anywhere, are we?”

Klopp didn’t answer, his eyes glancing up at the count. Alek pulled his hands from the saunters and swiveled the pilot’s chair around.

“Volger, what’s going on?”

The wildcount stared down at him in silence, and Alek felt suddenly very alone out here in the darkness.

His mind began to replay his father’s warnings: How some nobles believed that Alek’s muddled lineage threatened the empire. That one day the insults might turn into something worse… .

But these men couldn’t be traitors. Volger had held a sword to his throat a thousand times in fencing practice, and his master of mechaniks? Unthinkable.

“Where are we going, Otto? Explain this at once .”

“You’re to come with us, Your Highness,” Otto Klopp said softly.

“We have to get as far away from Prague as possible,” Volger said. “Your father’s orders.”

“But my father isn’t even …” Alek gritted his teeth and swore. What a fool he’d been, tempted into the forest with tales of midnight piloting, like luring a child with candy. The whole household was asleep, his parents away in Sarajevo.

Alek’s arms were still tired from fighting to keep the Stormwalker upright, and strapped into the pilot’s chair he could hardly draw his knife. He closed his eyes—he’d left the weapon back in his room, under the pillow.

“The archduke left instructions,” Count Volger said.

“You’re lying !” Alek shouted.

“I wish we were, young master.” Volger reached into his riding jacket.

A surge of panic swept into Alek, cutting through his despair. His hands shot to the unfamiliar controls, searching for the distress whistle’s cord. They couldn’t be far from home yet. Surely someone would hear the Stormwalker’s shriek.

Otto jumped into motion, grabbing Alek’s arms. Volger swept a flask from his jacket and forced its open mouth to Alek’s face. A sweet smell filled the cabin, sending his mind spinning. He tried not to breathe, struggling against the larger men.

Then his fingers found the distress cord and pulled—

But Master Klopp’s hands were already at the controls, spilling the Stormwalker’s pneumatic pressure. The whistle let out only a miserable descending wail, like a teakettle pulled from the fire.

Alek still struggled, holding his breath for what felt like minutes, but finally his lungs rebelled. He scooped in a ragged breath, the sharp scent of chemicals filling his head …

A cascade of bright spots fell across the instruments, and a weight seemed to lift from Alek’s shoulders. He felt as though he were floating free of the men’s grasp, free of the seat straps—free of gravity, even.

“My father will have your heads,” he managed to croak.

“Alas not, Your Highness,” Count Volger said. “Your parents are both dead, murdered this night in Sarajevo.”

Alek tried to laugh at this absurd statement, but the world twisted sideways under him, darkness and silence crashing down.

“Wake up, you ninny!”

Deryn Sharp opened one eye … and found herself staring at etched lines streaming past an airbeast’s body, like a river’s course around an island—an airflow diagram. Lifting her head from the aeronautics manual, she discovered that the open page was stuck to her face.

“You stayed up all night!” The voice of her brother, Jaspert, battered her ears again. “I told you to get some sleep!”

Deryn gently peeled the page from her cheek and frowned—a smudge of drool had disfigured the diagram. She wondered if sleeping with her head in the manual had stuffed still more aeronautics into her brain.

“Obviously I did get some sleep, Jaspert, seeing as you found me snoring.”

“Aye, but not properly in bed.” He was moving around the small rented room in the darkness, piecing together a clean airman’s uniform. “One more hour of studying, you said, and you’ve burnt our last candle down to a squick!”

Deryn rubbed at her eyes, looking around the small, depressing room. It was always damp and smelled of horse clart from the stables below. Hopefully last night would be the last time she slept here, in bed or not. “Doesn’t matter. The Service has its own candles.”

“Aye, if you pass the test.”

Deryn snorted. She’d studied only because she hadn’t been able to sleep, half excited about finally taking the airman middy’s test, half terrified that someone would see through her disguise. “No need to worry about that, Jaspert. I’ll pass.”

Her brother nodded slowly, a mischievous expression crossing his face. “Aye, maybe you’re a crack hand with sextants and aerology. And maybe you can draw any airbeast in the fleet. But there’s one test I haven’t mentioned. It’s not about book learning—more what they call ‘air sense.’”

“Air sense?” Deryn said. “Are you winding me up?”

“It’s a dark secret of the Service.” Jaspert leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve risked expulsion for daring to mention it to a civilian.”

“You are full of clart , Jaspert Sharp!”

“I can say no more.” He pulled his still-buttoned shirt over his head, and when his face emerged, it had broken into a smile.

Deryn scowled, still not sure if he was kidding. As if she weren’t nervous enough.

Jaspert tied his airman’s neckerchief. “Get your slops on and we’ll see what you look like. All that studying’s going to waste if your tailoring don’t persuade them.”