Goliath (33 page)

“Did anyone get that signal?” the captain shouted.

“
E
-
R
-
A
?” the first officer said.

“
C
-
A
-
M
,” Bovril muttered, and suddenly it all fell into place.

“The walkers on the cliffs,” Alek said. “They’re camera platforms!”

“Walker cameras?” The captain shook his head. “Why would rebels have that sort of equipment?”

“With Sharp flying about, they must know we’re on to them,” the first officer said. “Sir, we should blow—”

“The film!” Dr. Barlow cried. “Those barrels had unexposed rolls of film in them. So the rebels
must
have motion picture cameras. This isn’t an attack!”

The bridge was silent for a moment, all eyes on the captain. He stood there with his arms crossed tight, fingers drumming.

“They haven’t fired at us yet,” he finally said. “But stand ready to blow all ballast if you hear so much as a gunshot.”

Alek breathed out a slow sigh, and Bovril’s claws eased
their grip on his shoulder. But then Dr. Busk spoke up: “Sharp looks hurt.”

Alek ran to the front of the bridge, shoving his way past the marine guards. From the front windows he saw her lying curled on the ground a hundred yards away.

“I’m going out there.”

The captain cleared his throat. “I can’t allow that, Your Highness.”

“Does anyone else on this ship speak Spanish?” Alek asked, trusting that between Italian and Latin he could manage.

The captain looked at his officers, then shook his head. “Perhaps not, but if the situation deteriorates, we’ll have to blow our ballast.”

“Exactly. Any misunderstanding could be a disaster, so give me a chance to sort this out!”

The captain thought another moment, then sighed and turned to Dr. Busk. “You go with him, and take five marines.”

Newkirk was already at Deryn’s side. A crowd of Villa’s men surrounded them, one waving and calling “
Médico
,” which certainly meant “doctor”—at least in Italian. A few landing lines swung freely, and an officer was trying to get the men back to their ropes.

“Dylan!” Alek shouted, pushing through the crowd.
The rebels pulled away, giving Bovril wide-eyed stares.

Newkirk looked up, his face streaked with dust. “He’s conscious, but he’s done his leg.”

“Of course I’m barking conscious!” Deryn shouted. “It hurts like blazes!”

Alek knelt beside her. The left arm of her uniform was torn and bloody, and she clasped one knee to her chest. Her eyes were squeezed shut against the pain.

Bovril made a soft unhappy noise, and Alek took Deryn’s hand.

“I’ve brought Dr. Busk,” he said.

Her eyes sprang open, and she whispered, “You
Dummkopf
!”

Alek froze. Injured or not, Deryn couldn’t afford to have a surgeon prying at her.

“Newkirk, get these men back on their lines!” Alek ordered. Then he whispered to Deryn, “Take my arm. If you can stand up, he might not look too closely.”

“Stand on my right,” she said, grasping his shoulder. Alek counted down from three under his breath, then stood, pulling her up onto one leg. Together they faced Dr. Busk, who was making his way through the crowd with the marine guards.

Deryn shifted on her good leg beside Alek, threatening to pull him over. She
was
rather taller than him, he realized,
and heavier than she looked—muscles from climbing, he supposed. Bovril helpfully jumped down onto the ground.

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 the leg 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, Doctor,” 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.