Leviathan

“To protect Serbia, Russia declares war on Austria.”

As Alek spoke, somehow his mind stayed focused on the play of sabers. It was strangely clarifying, wearing no mask. He’d met German officers from the military schools where protection was considered cowardly. Scars stretched across their faces like cruel smiles.

“And then?” Volger said.

“Germany protects Clanker honor by declaring war on Russia.”

Volger lunged at Alek’s knee, an illegal target. “And then?”

“France makes good its treaty with Russia, and declares war on Germany.”

“And then?”

“Who knows?” Alek shouted, thrashing at Volger’s saber. He’d lost his footing, he realized—too much of his body was exposed. He turned to correct it. “Britain finds her way in somehow. Darwinists against Clankers.”

Volger lunged forward and his saber spun, wrapping around Alek’s like a snake and yanking it from his grasp. Metal flashed as the sword soared across the barn, burying itself in the half-rotten wall with a thunk.

The wildcount stepped forward and held his saber at Alek’s throat.

“And what can we conclude from this lesson, Your Highness?”

Alek glared at the man. “We can conclude, Count Volger, that discussing politics while fencing is idiotic.”

Volger smiled. “For most people, perhaps. But some of us are born without the choice. The game of nations is your birthright, Alek. Politics is part of everything you do.”

Alek pushed Volger’s saber aside. Without a sword in his hand he suddenly felt numb and exhausted, and he didn’t have the strength to argue against the obvious. His birth had shaken the Austro-Hungarian throne, and now his parents’ death had unsettled the delicate balance of Europe.

“So this war is my responsibility,” he said bitterly.

“No, Alek. The Clanker and Darwinist powers would have found a way to fight, sooner or later. But perhaps you can still make your mark.”

“How?” Alek asked.

The wildcount did a strange thing then. He took his own saber by the blade and handed it to Alek, pommel first, as if offering it to a victor.

“We shall see, Alek. We shall see.”

TEN

He eased the saunters sideways and felt the Storm-walker’s right foot shift.

“That’s it,” Otto Klopp said. “Slowly now.”

Alek nudged the controls again, and the walker slid a little farther. It was frustrating, maneuvering in tight quarters like this. One bump of the walker’s shoulder could send the whole rotten barn crashing down around them. At least the trembling gauges and levers had begun to make sense. A little more pressure in the knees might help… .

With another nudge he’d done it—the viewport was lined up with a ragged gap in the wall of the barn. The late afternoon sun shone into the cabin, the fields stretching out before them. A harvesting combine rumbled along on twelve legs in the distance, a dozen farmers and a four-legged truck following to collect the bundled grain.

Count Volger put a hand on Alek’s shoulder. “Wait till they’re out of sight.”

“Well, obviously,” Alek said. With his bruises still throbbing, he’d had enough of Volger’s counsel for one day.

The combine made its slow way across the field, finally disappearing behind a low hill. A few workmen straggled behind, black dots on the horizon. Alek soon lost them in the distance, but waited.

Finally Bauer’s voice crackled on the intercom, “That’s the last one gone, sir.”

Corporal Bauer had the uncanny eyesight of an expert gunner. Two weeks ago he’d been on his way to commanding a machine of his own. Master Hoffman had been the Hapsburg Guards’ best engineer. But now the two were nothing more than fugitives.

Alek had slowly come to understand everything his men had given up for him: their ranks, families, and futures. If they were caught, the other four would hang as deserters. Prince Aleksandar himself would disappear more quietly, of course, for the good of the empire. The last thing a nation at war needed was uncertainty about who was heir to the throne.

He eased the Stormwalker toward the barn’s open doors, using the shuffling step that Klopp had taught him. It erased the machine’s massive footprints, along with any other signs that someone had hidden here.

“Ready for your first run, young master?” Klopp asked.

Alek nodded, flexing his fingers. He was nervous, but glad to be piloting in daylight for once, instead of the dead of night.

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.”