Goliath

“On my command.” Captain Hobbes raised his hand.

Alek squinted, watching the shadow wheel in ever-tightening circles. Its shape reminded him of the gliding wings on Newkirk’s back.

“Deryn Sharp,” whispered Bovril.

“Wait!” Alek cried, spinning about to face the captain. He took two steps closer, but a marine guard blocked his way. “It’s Dylan!”

The captain turned, his hand still raised.

“Middy Sharp’s gliding down!” Alek shouted. “There must be a reason!”

The officers stood ready, their eyes on the captain. The man hesitated a moment, then glanced at the first officer. “Take a look.”

Alek crossed back to the windows, pointing at the flitting, wheeling shadow. The men on the landing lines had seen it now—they were looking up and calling to one another.

“How do you know it’s Sharp?” the first officer asked.

“Because it’s—it’s…,” Alek sputtered.

“Mr. Sharp!” Bovril declared.

Deryn’s winged form streaked into sight beneath the edge of the gasbag, careening downward at an absurd angle, two semaphore flags rippling in her hands. She shot past the bridge windows in an instant, arms flailing, and then she was gone.

“Did anyone catch that signal?” the captain asked.

“A-M, sir,” one of the navigators said. “That’s all I got.”

“‘Ambush,’” the captain said. “Stand ready, lads.”

“Pardon me, sir,” the first officer said. “But there was a C at first.”

Captain Hobbes hesitated, shaking his head.

Alek ran to the far side of the bridge—Deryn’s shadow wheeled about, and a moment later she swung back into view. She came in low across the front windows, sending the ground men scattering before her.

Her semaphore flags were still waving, but then her boots skidded on hard ground. Deryn reached up to regain control, the flags falling from her hands.

The wings pulled her up into the air one last time, then crumpled and twisted, dropping her into a stumbling halt. Ground men came running from all directions, and Deryn disappeared among them in a cloud of dust.

“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 “Medico,” 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.