Goliath

enough in their red uniforms, and most wore sandbags on their belts for extra weight, no doubt to guard against the gusty ocean breeze.

She heard the growl of Clanker engines, and turned to find a trio of strange machines lumbering forward— six-legged walkers. Their pilots rode out in the open, and metal arms rose up from their backsides, carrying some sort of contraption.

“What in blazes are those?” she asked Mr. Francis.

“Moving-picture cameras, on the latest walking platforms. Mr. Hearst wants the Leviathan’s arrival captured for his newsreels.”

Deryn frowned. She’d heard about the Clanker obsession with moving pictures but had never seen one herself. The cameras whirred and shuddered, a bit like the sewing machines back in Tokyo. Each one had three lenses like insect eyes, all staring up at the airship overhead.

“That’s the door on the starboard side, correct?” Mr. Francis asked. “We’ll want to shoot them coming out.”

“You want to shoot them?”

“Photograph them.” He smiled. “Figure of speech.”

“Of course. Aye, the gangway drops from starboard,” she said, feeling like a traitor to Alek for helping. This Mr. Francis wasn’t an airman at all, calling the gangway hatch a door. He was some sort of moving-picture reporter!

Behind the walkers waited more men in civilian clothes, recording frogs on their shoulders, cameras in their hands. They surged forward as the airship dropped its lines to the waiting ground men.

“You might want to pull those reporters back,” Deryn said. “In case there’s a gust.”

“Mr. Hearst’s crewcan handle it.”

She scowled. The ground men looked sure enough in their duties, but how dare they call her down here just to help with barking camera angles!

The ground men took hold of the lines and began to spread out, pulling the Leviathan downward. When the gondola was a few yards above the airfield, the gangplank lowered itself to the ground, revealing Captain Hobbes, Mr. Tesla, and Prince Aleksandar. The captain saluted smartly, and the inventor waved his walking stick, but Alek looked unsteady. His eyes flicked between the cameras and the crowd for a moment, until he managed a halfhearted bow.

The walking platforms plodded closer, their cameras rising up, and suddenly they looked predatory, reminding Deryn of the scorpion walker that had captured her men at Gallipoli. The cameras even looked a bit like Clanker machine guns.

A plump man with a broad hat and pin-striped pants detached himself from the scrum of reporters, making his way up the gangplank. He reached out and pumped the captain’s hand.

“Is that Mr. Hearst?” Deryn asked.

“The man himself,” Mr. Francis said. “You’re lucky to find him at home. With the war boiling over, he’s been in New York since late summer, tending to his newspapers.”

“Lucky us,” Deryn said, watching Alek greet Mr. Hearst. In the cavalry tunic he’d borrowed from Volger, Alek did in fact look quite dashing. And with his host before him, his aristocratic reflexes seemed to take over. He bowed again, gracefully this time, and even smiled for the cameras looming overhead.

Deryn was glad to see him getting into the spirit of things, but then she had a disturbing thought. What if he started to enjoy all this attention?

“THE MOGUL.”

No, it would take more than a knock on the head to change Alek that much.

She tore her gaze from the spectacle and checked the landing field once more. To her relief a tangle was developing among the ropes.

“Looks as though your men might need some help after all,” she said to Mr. Francis, and took off at a run.

The snarl of cables was near the bow of the ship, where the breeze was strongest. Overhead the topside crew had already cast a line across to the mooring tower, but they were waiting for the chaos below to settle before hitching the airship fast.

As Deryn approached, two groups of ground men were shouting at each other. Someone had pulled in the wrong direction, crossing the ropes, and now no one wanted to let go. She waded in, barking orders while making sure the men didn’t all drop their lines at once. It was sorted out soon enough, and Deryn pulled out her semaphore flags to flash a quick R-E-A-D-Y to the topside crew.

“I’m afraid that was my fault,” came a voice from behind her.

She turnind a man in an ill-fitting uniform, a bit older than the other crewmen. Behind his mustache his face was somehow familiar.

“Are you . . . ,” she began, but then a croak came from one of the sandbags on his belt.

“Shush, Rusty,” he hissed. “Good to see you again, Mr. Sharp. Do you suppose we might have a quick word in the privacy of your ship?”

She squinted at his face, and recognized him just as he stuck out his hand.

“Eddie Malone. Reporter for the New York World.”

“What in blazes are you doing here?”

Malone considered the question. “Why am I in California? Or why am I in disguise, instead of snapping photos with the other reporters?”

“Aye, both!”

“Happy to explain everything,” Malone said. “But first we need to get aboard your ship. Otherwise those fellows are about to give me a thrashing.”

Deryn turned to follow Malone’s gaze, and saw a trio of burly men in dark blue uniforms striding across the airfield.

“Who in blazes are they?”

“Pinkertons—security guards in the employ of Mr. Hearst. You see, my paper was owned by a fellow called Pulitzer, and he and Hearst weren’t exactly pals. So let’s not dawdle.” The man started to drag her toward the Leviathan’s gondola.

“Surely they won’t set upon you in broad daylight!”

“Whatever they do, it won’t be pretty.”

Deryn looked at the men again. They carried truncheons in their hands. Perhaps it was better to be safe than sorry.

The Leviathan’s gondola was still too high to jump aboard, and she and Malone would never make it past the Pinkertons to the gangplank on the other side. But where the navigator’s bubble bulged downward beneath the bridge were two steel mooring rings, just out of reach.

“Get ready to grab one of those handholds,” she ordered Malone, then turned to the ground men she’d just untangled, shouting, “Give me a good heave in one . . . two . . . three!”

The men pulled back in a mass, and the ship’s nose dipped just enough. Eddie Malone and Deryn jumped to grab the mooring rings, then hauled themselves up as the ship bobbed back to level.

“This way,” she said, scrambling toward the forward cargo bay windows. Malone followed, his shoes almost slipping from the metal rail around the bottom of thondola.

The Pinkertons had arrived below them, and were peering up at Deryn and Malone with annoyed expressions.

“PINKERTONS’ PURSUIT.”