Goliath

then?”

“Nobles don’t have last names. Our titles define us.”

“Well, that’s one way to put it.” A moment of scribbling later, the man spoke up again. “Perhaps you want to comment on Deryn Sharp?”

Alek hesitated. This was his chance to explain who Deryn really was. He could tell Malone, and the world, about her bravery and skill, about why she’d taken to the air. But he saw Volger eyeing him from across the platform.

^{“ARRIVING IN MANHATTAN.”}

Deryn’s scandal could only distract from Tesla’s mission here in New York. And if he spoke on the matter, the headlines about her would only loom larger.

“I have no comment,” Alek said.

“That seems a bit odd, considering how closely you two worked together in Istanbul.”

Alek turned away from the reporter. He hated this, not helping tell her story, but no one’s reputation was more important than peace. Or was that just a convenient excuse? A way to escape being caught up in an embarrassing revelation? At first he’d been so ashamed for not knowing who and what she really was. But there was no shame at all in being a friend of Deryn Sharp. Maybe he should forget Volger’s warnings, and explain to Malone how he really felt about Deryn.

Alek swallowed. And how did he feel about her, exactly?

Up in the sky the Leviathan was moving away, now only a silhouette against the starry blackness. When would he see his best friend again?

Alek heard the growl of an engine, and dropped his gaze to the harbor. The jitney was descending quickly, heading toward the aero-piers at Manhattan’s southern tip. Some sort of motorboat was skimming across the dark water, darting among the other bobbing lights.

“And from what I heard back in Pancho Villa’s canyon,” Malone went on, “you sounded like you already knew what she was. How long ago did you guess?”

Alek frowned. The motorboat below had turned hard, and was skimming directly toward the jitney now. A sudden flash sparked on its deck, and a cloud of smoke billowed out, hiding the boat for a moment.

“I think that’s some sort of…,” Alek began, his voice fading as something climbed from the smoke, spilling flame behind it.

“Rocket,” Bovril said, and crawled inside Alek’s coat.

THIRTY-THREE

Alek spun about, but no one else was looking. Even Malone was staring into his notebook.

“There’s a rocket,” he said, not nearly loud enough. Then he found his voice and shouted, “We’re under attack!”

Heads turned toward him, as slow as tortoises’, but finally a crewman spotted the rocket climbing toward them. Shouts carried across the platform, and one of the lifting engines roared to life. The craft slewed to one side, Alek’s boots skidding beneath him.

The rocket was almost upon them, hissing like a steam train. Alek threw himself down onto the platform deck, sheltering Bovril beneath his body, as the missile roared past.

An explosion cracked the air above him and flung tendrils of flame down upon the jitney. An ember the size of a pumpkin bounced across the deck, hissing and spilling smoke. It knocked down a crewman, then rolled off the platform and hit one of the hot-air balloons. The thin envelope full of superheated air burst into flame.

Alek’s eyes were forced shut by the heat rolling up from below. He covered his face and peered out between gloved fingers. As the crew and passengers fled from the fire, the jitney rolled with their weight, dropping to one side. But a moment later the envelope was consumed, the fire having burnt itself into a ghost in seconds.

With only three balloons left, the jitney began to tip again, but now in the opposite direction—toward the corner with no lift. The passengers staggered back that way, then one fell and slid, and Alek saw in a flash how this would end. As their weight gathered on the damaged corner of the jitney, the tilt would increase until the craft flipped over.

Tesla had realized it too. “Grab on to something!” the man cried, taking hold of the platform rail. “Stay in this side!”

Lying beside Alek, Eddie Malone began to slide away, but Alek seized the man’s hand. Around them other passengers were slipping; some managed to take hold of the rail, some spread their weight flat across the deck. Bovril mewled inside Alek’s coat, and Malone’s hand squeezed his hard. Captain Hobbes was shouting orders at the jitney’s crew.

The craft began to gyrate, like a leaf falling through the air. Buildings spun past, alternating with empty sky. Would they fall into the freezing water? Or crash into Manhattan’s steel and marble towers?

The fall seemed to take forever—the three remaining balloons were still full and functioning, and the jitney was not much heavier than the air around it. Alek saw Captain Hobbes at one of the lifting engines, trying to control the ship’s descent.

Soon they were over solid ground. Buildings spun past on all sides, their lit windows streaking across Alek’s view.

Then the jitney struck something solid, and the wooden deck beneath him split, hurling splinters into the air. The craft’s underside shrieked, skidding sideways. Then came a crash like thunder, and a brick chimney shattered as the craft barreled through it. The captain had brought them down onto a large rooftop.

Brick fragments of the chimney scattered across the deck, but the jitney was still sliding. Ahead Alek saw a wireless aerial rushing at him. He covered his head, but the aerial bent away under the mass of the jitney. The groan of the skid continued for another few seconds, then ended with another crash. The ruined craft had finally run into something heavy enough to stop it.

Alek looked up. A short wooden tower loomed over the jitney’s deck. The bottom of the tower’s struts were splintered, and it leaned precariously over him, but it didn’t fall.

“Fire!” someone yelled.

Another of the balloons had burst into flame. The fuel in its burner was spilling from the jitney’s deck, carrying the fire onto the rooftop. The marines and Captain Hobbes were beating the flames, but the blaze simply leapt onto their jackets, borne by the fuel.

“That’s a water tower!” Malone pointed at the structure the jitney had half knocked over in its crash.

Alek looked about. The jitney carried no tools that he could see, but one of the lifting propellers had broken into pieces. He hefted one of the blades. It was a meter long and wasn’t sharp, but it was heavy. Wielding it like an axe, Alek began to hack at the side of the water tower. The heat of the flames grew worse behind him.

The tower began to split beneath his blows. The wood was old and rotten, the nails rusted, and soon the planks were cracking open.

But no water rushed from the gap.

Malone stayed Alek’s hand, then climbed up and looked in.

“It’s empty, dammit!”

Alek groaned, turning back to the fire. It had reached the wooden deck of the jitney, and the Leviathan’s crewmen were retreating from the blaze.

“Your Highness!” the captain called. “This way! There’s a fire escape!”

Alek blinked. They couldn’t leave the building to burn, could they?

“Come on, Your Majesty!” Malone said, grabbing his arm.

Then Alek felt a drop of water hit his face, and he reached up and touched a finger to it. More drops fell, and for a moment he thought that it was a perfect and improbable rain spilling from a clear sky.