Leviathan

fireflies.

Their only weapons were small mortar tubes mounted on the rear of the machines. As Alek watched, one blossomed with a cloud of smoke, shooting another flare into the radiant sky.

“Some new kind of scout,” Klopp murmured.

“And perfect for tracking the likes of us,” Volger said.

Alek frowned. “But those mortars won’t even scratch us!”

“They don’t have to,” Klopp said, “as long as they keep us in sight. The frigate will be moving sooner or later.”

“So what do we do?” Alek said, hands clenching the saunters. “Fight them now, while she’s still warming up?”

Klopp thought for a moment. “No, keep moving. Maybe you can get us to the border faster than they expect.”

Alek turned the walker back around and started up the slope again. He heard Volger preparing the Spandaus. The scout walkers’ pilots were only half covered with armor. A few machine-gun bursts might make them think twice about following too closely.

A sudden red glare filled the Stormwalker’s cabin, along with a choking wave of smoke. Alek squinted through the haze—a still-burning flare skittered away across the ground.

He coughed into a fist. “They’re shooting flares at us now? Are they mad?”

“It is a bit pathetic,” Klopp said. “But I’ll close the viewport.”

Alek nodded. The thought of burning phosphorous bouncing around the cabin was unnerving. He hardly needed the viewport open; it was still as bright as day outside.

But one thing was odd. The sky was lit a cold blue, but the flare that had just missed them had burned bright red.

As the viewport cranked closed, another flare rocketed past—also red—missing the Stormwalker by a hair.

Volger started up with one of the machine guns, filling the cabin with the roar of gunfire and still more smoke. Shell casings clattered down onto the metal deck, rolling back and forth underfoot as the walker lurched along.

Another red flare whizzed past, spitting smoke and sparks. Alek’s eyes were beginning to sting, and his vision blurred with tears.

“Otto, take over!”

Klopp grabbed the saunters, and Alek searched blindly for his canteen. He drained it onto his face, washing the smoke from his eyes.

A metal clang shuddered through the cabin.

“Did you hit something?” Alek asked, blinking the water away.

Klopp shook his head. “Hardly. It’s light enough out there!”

Alek frowned, feeling the machine rumble beneath him. The walker’s steps were steady on the slope, and the gauges all flickered at normal levels.

Except one—the temperature of the rear exhaust had suddenly jumped.

He stood and pushed the top hatch open.

“Alek!” Volger said, turning from his machine gun. “What are you doing?”

“Something’s wrong.” He pulled himself up.

Fresh air blew across his face, and the engines’ unmuffled roar filled his ears. Keeping his head down, he scanned the forest.

Nothing but trees and undergrowth. Where had the scout craft gone?

Then Alek spotted one in the distance, running away at top speed.

“What the … ?” he began, then saw a reddish flicker coming from the rear exhaust ports. He pulled himself a little higher and saw what it was.

A hissing glob of phosphorus was stuck to the engine casing. Still burning, it billowed smoke into the air. Alek lifted his gaze and saw the red column drifting up into the bright sky.

“So much for capturing me alive,” he muttered, and dropped back through the hatch.

Count Volger glared at him. “Glad to see you’ve regained your—”

“Klopp!” Alek shouted. “Run serpentine!”

The master of mechaniks hesitated, then began to weave the Stormwalker through the trees.

“Turn harder, man! That last flare hit us. It’s stuck to the armor like a mud ball and sending up smoke!” The others just stared at him, and Alek cried, “Those scouts are running off as quickly as they can!”

Awareness finally dawned on Klopp’s face. He pulled the walker to the left for a few long strides, then back to the right.

This was why the frigate hadn’t fired yet. Its gunners were waiting for the target to be marked and for the scouts to get clear. But now the Stormwalker was in for a thrashing.

Alek looked at the rear exhaust gauge—still hot. That column of red smoke was still rising above the trees.

He turned to Klopp. “Is there any way to put it out?”

“Phosphorous? Water won’t work, and it’ll burn through anything we try to smother it with. We’ll have to wait till it burns out.”

“How long?” Volger asked.

“Could be half an hour,” Klopp said. “Long enough for them to—”

A rumbling sounded in the distance.

Alek shouted a warning, but Klopp was already twisting the saunters, driving the walker into a hard turn. The machine thrashed through a stand of saplings, and Alek grabbed the hand straps, slipping on the shell casings rolling across the metal deck.

Then a sovereign boom rolled through the Stormwalker. The sound shook Alek to his bones, and the world suddenly tipped sideways. He hung from the hand straps, feet swinging in the air.

Klopp’s hands never left the controls, and somehow the walker staggered back upright. It swerved, narrowly missing a beech tree. Heavy branches lashed at them, sending an explosion of leaves through the half-closed viewport.

“How long till the next volley?” Volger’s voice was dry.

“About forty seconds,” Klopp said.

“We have to get that flare off!” Alek shouted. “Give me something to hack at it with!”

Volger shook his head. “It’s too dangerous, Your Highness.”

Alek had to suppress a hysterical laugh, tearing open the pilot’s storage locker. “Dangerous, Volger? Compared with letting ourselves be blown to pieces?”

“I’ll do it, then,” Volger said.

Alek’s hand closed on a sword he’d never seen before. He pulled it from the locker—an old cavalry saber, much heavier than the swords they fenced with, perfect for the job.

“I’ve been climbing on walkers since I was ten, Volger,” he said, sticking the scabbard through his belt.

Volger placed his hand on Alek’s shoulder. “That sword is two centuries old! Your father—”

“Can’t help us,” Alek said. “Reload the machine guns in case those scouts come back.”

Without waiting for a reply he pulled himself up and out.

Up top, branches slapped at his face, and the machine rocked beneath him like an unbroken horse. Klopp was doing his best serpentine. The hot metal of the engine casing burned Alek’s fingers even through his piloting gloves.

The marker flare was stuck among the Stormwalker’s exhaust pipes, hissing and spitting, driven brighter by the machine’s speed. Red smoke trailed out, spreading as it rose into the brilliant sky.

Alek drew the saber and clutched it with one hand, holding the scabbard with the other. He raised the sword high, then brought the blade down hard.

The flare split open under his blow, but only blazed brighter, like a burning log jabbed with a poker.