Chapter 29! *Cue dramatic music*

A/N: So, yeah. It's been a really, really long time since I updated. Sorry about that. I didn't forget about you! I promise! I've just been busy, and I really didn't have much inspiration… until now. Oh, yes, I have had inspiration. So much inspiration that it lasted seven whole pages in a Word document! I guess the length is my apology to you all for having seemed to ignore you. Sorry!

P.S.: I think this is a totally epic chapter, by the way. You should read it now.

The sun was setting as they arrived back at the ship, stretching out shadows and turning everything orange.

Singe nodded at the airman on duty as they walked up the cargo bay ramp, briefly feeling sorry for the man who'd been denied even the squick of shore leave the others had been given. But then he remembered that he'd certainly have some next time the ship was stopped anywhere.

He waved a quick goodbye to Alek and Deryn as they headed in opposite directions—the others to their cabin and Singe to the kitchens to beg for a space in cold storage for his yogurt.

The kitchens weren't anything fancy, just a modest space tucked at the bottom of the gondola crammed with giant, gleaming pots and fabricated cupboards lining the walls over countertops spanning the length of the place. He'd never quite understood the stoves—open flames were strictly prohibited on any airship—and didn't necessarily care to. Most likely some boffin had gotten happy with life threads, and the less Singe had to think about one of the beasts heating up his meals the better. So he steered clear of the closed off room they were in and instead made straight for the cooks' quarters.

He knocked politely on the hollow wooden door, and in less than a moment it opened to reveal one of the three cooks, a short, wiry man without a hair on his head to speak of. Singe could see his reflection in the shine of his head very well as the man barely came to the tip of his nose in height, and tried not to stare.

Singe cleared his throat and saluted smartly, not really knowing if what he was asking would be 

precedent or not.

The silence stretched out while Singe waited for the man to speak. He blinked a few times, then said, without preamble, "Well, what do you want, boy?"

"Middy Newkirk, Sir, requesting permission for cold storage, Sir!" He waited for a reply, trying not to look desperate. It wouldn't do for his yogurt to ruin before he could enjoy it.

"What for?" the man asked tiredly.

He bit his lip and tried to think of a proper way to state his reasoning. "To store spoils I got m'self on shore, Sir," he said, and grimaced as the worst of his small town accent showed through in his nervousness. He never had dealt with stress well.

When the cook said nothing, Singe continued, "It would only be for a day or two, Sir, and you wouldn't have to bother with it none—" he cleared his throat "—I'd just come and get it when I get the breakfast for the prisoners in the morning. No trouble for you at all, Sir." He gulped.

The man nodded and hobbled on his short legs to a large bin at the back. He beckoned for Singe to hand over the lukewarm tub of yogurt, and then quickly stowed it among the other supplies

"Thank you." Singe saluted once more, and stated he'd be back within the hour for the prisoners' evening meal. The cook didn't seem particularly enthused with that idea.

He strolled down the hall toward his cabin, and almost made it there before he remembered; the flechette bats needed to be fed now that the storage rooms were filled again. Sighing, he took the route that would send him by Melissa's and Lauren's room so he could rouse them to help. It was their duty, after all.

After a few bouts of loud knocking on their door with no reply, he tried the knob.

It was open.

The door fell away from his hand easily, swinging inward. He stepped inside, expecting to see any standard middy's room—a trunk of belongings and carefully made cot for each, possibly with a few things on the side table. But it was empty. There wasn't a single thing in the room but the beds, stripped to the frame.

Strange, Singe thought, checking to make sure he had the right room. He refused to let himself get worked up about it—probably something simple. Bugs, maybe.

He sighed, and crawled out onto the ratlines. It seemed as though he'd be feeding the bats on his own tonight. Shuddering, he made a personal note to make the other middies run extra drills and give them the flechette bats for at least a week.

The ropes creaked in his grasp, and the brisk northern wind tore at his uniform in the fading light, sending a shiver up his spine. The sooner this was over with, the better.

Snagging a few feed bags from a team of riggers, he dropped down into the bat coves and started tossing the dried fruit about. From the shadows stepped a familiar shape.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Fitzroy?" Singe asked abruptly, not pausing in his duty. "This isn't your job anymore," he added, remembering the shock of seeing the boy's name on the plaque in the message lizard room.

The former midshipman tilted his head, fixing Singe with eyes as cold as ice but as golden as sunlight. "Wondering at the fact that when I served on this ship, we would have had these bats fed ages ago. And how now only one boy could be bothered to take care of the beasts. Quite pathetic, really." He took a few steps toward Singe, easily avoiding the guano that littered the floor. His gaze wandered around the cove, travelling among the swarms of bats and landing back on Singe. "Very pathetic."

Though on the inside, Singe was assessing how far he was from the drop off outside if he had to make an escape and what chance he'd have in a fight, he was careful to show only a cool amusement. A few more dried figs flew across the cove before he spoke. "I would ask you for help, but you never were quite good enough at this, so I would be afraid you'd sod it up and get us both kicked off this time."

A spark of anger flared in Fitzroy's eyes, but it was dampened almost before it showed. He continued as though Singe hadn't said anything, "The state of these bats is completely unacceptable."

Singe tried not to roll his eyes. "Last I checked," he said, tossing the last fig toward one of the smaller bats, "it's not your job to worry about how 'acceptable' our bats are. You're not the captain."

Fitzroy reached over his head and took hold of a ratline just outside the cove. "Unfortunately not," he growled, icy voice barely audible over the screeches of the bats, "As my request was refused by the Admirality." He swung away, leaving Singe to wonder if he'd heard right.

He emptied a second bag to the bats hastily and hurried down to the kitchens for his and the prisoners' food. There were brown paper bags waiting for him now instead of trays, and they numbered four. Frowning, he asked one of the cooks if that was right. The man nodded, sweat sliding down his large nose from the heat of the ovens.

"Each of them gets one," he said, wiping at his forehead. "The captain said you'd be eating with the rest of the crew tonight, not in the brig with the scum."

Singe was about to tell him the Rachel was not scum, but stopped himself. Instead, he shook his head. "Then who are the other two for?"

The cook's lip curled. "Scum," he said, and spat into a trash bin by his feet. "Of the traitorous kind."

Singe didn't say anything, just stood leaning on the doorframe, confused.

"You mean you ain't heard? Figured you'd be the first to know, I did. Your midshipmen, the two brothers, got tossed in the brig. Turns out that after the Admirality looked into them a bit, theydon't exist."

He choked on his own breath. "Wh-what?"

"Barking spies, they is. Clankers." His voice was low, a wry grin tugging at the corners of his thin mouth, 

"The captain's still trying to decide what punishment's good enough for rotten ones like them. Good thing we caught them when we did, otherwise we coulda been the next ship going down in flames."

He hardly heard the last part because he was racing as fast as his legs would take him to the brig.

"Let me in to see them." It wasn't a request. It was a command. The man on duty seemed slightly 

frightened by the darkness in Singe's voice, so he quickly shoved the key in the lock of the third cell that, until now, had been unoccupied.

The windowless room looked the same as the others, except that an extra cot had been shoved against the opposite wall. One of the girls was sitting on each, knees pulled up to their chests in defeat.

Melissa's head jerked up to see who'd come in, face lighting on Singe. "Newkirk!" she cried in a whisper. 

"Thank God it's you."

"What's happened?"

"They think we're spies," Lauren offered miserably. "And I'm not sure if that's better or worse than finding out the truth."

"I already knew that much. But why?" He kept his voice soft, in case the guard outside was listening.

The door had already sealed behind them, and only the wormlamp gave off a soft glow as he placed himself on the edge of Melissa's cot, leaning on his knees.

"Everyone's been jumpy about all the ships going down, you know? So the Admirality's been trying to find a link between all of them, and they'd all had new midshipmen." She shook her head. "Terribly inconvenient coincidence. So they ran background checks on all of us who've been serving for less than a few months—I'm not sure on the details—like somehow we'd been leading the Clanker ships to the airbeasts so they could be destroyed or something.

"And they found out that there have never been a Miles and Levi Wilson who lived in London, born in 1897 and '95, at least. Then they saw the forgeries in our recommendation letters, and it was just too convenient that they let Levi live in the mountains, so they just assumed." Melissa wasn't even trying to keep her voice like a boy's. It was strange to hear her voice come out high and without the faked British accent—almost like he'd never even heard her speak before now.

"This may sound like a strange question," Singe said, not sure why he was even thinking about it, "but which of you is older?"

Lauren's eyebrows drew together in surprise, and Melissa jerked her head toward her sister. "Levi is, by almost two years."

"Hmm. I never would have guessed," he mused, earning a half-hearted glare from Lauren.

"But it's so much worse than all that," Lauren moaned softly, massaging her temples. "If they found out who we are—" She cut off, taking a quick glance at her sister. "It would be bad."

Singe pretended not to notice the exchange. "I'd noticed," he said drily. Suddenly remembering the bags clenched tightly in his fist, he handed one to each of them. "I brought you dinner. I'm not even sure what's in there, but it's hot."

The paper crinkled as it was folded over and they took out covered bowls of potato stew canteens of water. Melissa stared sullenly at the food. "It was nice to see you, Mr. Newkirk, but you should be going or the guard will be suspicious."

"Right," he agreed, nodding to the girls and stepping out while they began to eat their food in silence.

Not wanting to deal with Tad, he simply slid the bag inside the door and called out a sarcastic, "You're welcome!"

His heart began to pick up tempo as it always did when he was about to see Rachel. The guard took his time with the lock, and Singe tapped his fingers against his trousers impatiently.

Not soon enough, he was in her cell and handing over the last sack of food. "Your meal, my lady," he said, bowing slightly from his sitting position on her bed.

She chuckled and accepted the bag gladly. "Because we have stopped for new supplies, I get hot food now?" Her eyes rolled back in pleasure as she inhaled the warm fumes of the stew.

Singe nodded as his stomach growled.

"Thank you, Eugene," she said, digging a spoon into the bowl. He watched in silence as she devoured the food with undisguised glee, not really caring about manners as she sat, cross-legged, licking her lips like any boy would. "Your captain will ask me questions in the morning," she said between mouthfuls.

"You mean, interrogate you?"

"Yes, that is the word the man used."

He frowned. "So… will you tell them what they want to know?"

"I—" now it was her turn to frown. "I do not know."

And that was how he ended up outside the interrogation room the next morning, ear pressed to the door he was supposed to be guarding after letting the man on duty believe Singe was the next shift.

"State your name," the captain ordered.

"Rachel Astrid Steiner." Her voice came through the door clearly, proudly.

"Origin?"

"Excuse me?"

There was a sigh. "Where do you come from?"

"Ah, yes. I come from Rendsburg, Germany."

They went on like that for nearly twenty minutes, establishing the most basic of information, and Singe was only mildly interested until he started asking her different sorts of questions.

"You were in the Kjolen mountains until five days ago. Why?"

"I was working."

"On what?"

"Machines." He had to admit, she was skilled at avoiding questions.

"What kinds of machines?"

A slight pause. "Automatons," she said finally.

"Were they of any involvement with the recent devastations of British airships?"

"Unfortunately, Captain, I cannot tell you that."

Singe could almost see the frustration on the captain's face. "Why is that?"

"Oh, come now, you certainly understand why. I have other loyalties, as you say." Her tone was calm, even reasonable, and he couldn't help thinking of how her English had improved in the last few days.

"Then we will come back to that in a bit. Please explain your relationship with Midshipman Eugene Newkirk."

Singe sucked in a breath; he wasn't aware they'd been that obvious. This didn't bode well for either of them.

"I do not know what you are talking about," she said warily.

"I believe that escorting prisoners around the ship without orders is a serious breach of rules, is it not, Mr. Williams?" Captain Hobbes asked of the guard stationed inside the room. "Which results in serious disciplinary action. Possibly demotion, or, in serious cases, dishonorable discharge."

The blood froze in his veins, a cold sense of dread creeping through his whole body. This could be it for him. Blisters, they might even think he was a spy, too, and toss him in the brig with Melissa and Lauren.

He heard a rasping breath from the other side of the door. "He means nothing to me. He was merely a mark I could con into doing my bidding."

"Is that so?" The captain almost sounded surprised.

"Yes. He was easy to trick. Really, you shouldn't trust a mere boy with such things when they involve a girl his age, so ready to fall in love with him," she scolded, sarcasm dripping from the last of her sentence. "It was too simple. I've wondered if he'd even seen a girl in the last year with how he followed me around like an eager little dog."

Vaguely, he realized that her English was not only better, it was downright fluent. Had anything she said to him, done in his presence, been the truth?

Meanwhile, the blood had started flowing again, now hot with rage and disbelief. The girl had lied to him, let him believe that she'd had feelings for him while he'd truly had them for her. It felt like she had stabbed him through the heart with his own rigging knife and twisted it around to make sure it hurt that much more.

He leaned against the wall in anguish, sliding down till he was huddled against it on the floor. His body automatically curled around the wound in his chest.

She hadn't stopped speaking, and Singe listened again because he couldn't bring himself not to. "…it's not his fault that he was so gullible. The Air Service should train their men to handle situations such as this."

"We'll see to it that he is reprimanded accordingly."

"Don't get me wrong, Captain. The boy is not a fool, just young."

"Are you not?"

"I am, but not in the same ways," Rachel muttered.

The wood of the floor seemed too interesting in Singe's despair. The way it ran in singe lines from one end of the board to the other was so wonderfully simple. He wished life could be that way.

But no, life was a tangled mess.

It twisted in on itself, crossing over until it could never be set straight. The people that came into life sent in their roots and got snarled around so that even if they cut off their ties, they'd never be truly gone. There would always be a piece of them left, whether it hurt or not. That's just the way it worked.

And now it was about to get even messier.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had shoved the door open and stormed into the room where 

Ronnie was sitting with her hands tied to a chair, the captain behind her.

"Now? Now will you tell him?" he demanded. She looked away, and he took hold of her chin—the way he'd wanted to so many times so he could kiss her—and made her look at him. "The least you can do is tell him what you were doing in those mountains!"

She met his eyes with a cold certainty. "No."

He stepped away, trying to hide how hurt he was, but against his will he fell to his knees "Why not?"

"I won't tell him," she said, jerking her head behind her, "but I will tell you."

"Why are you doing this to me?" Singe yelled, clenching his fists. "I heard what you said! I know about all your lies now! So stop. Just stop. I'm done with you."

He let all of his pain seep into those words, all the hurt he was feeling. His knees came off the floor and he turned away from her, ready to leave her behind.

"Orion Omega is a scam."

Singe froze, not trusting himself to speak.

"What?" asked the captain incredulously.

"It means nothing. It's only purpose is to distract from the real threat—Orion Alpha."

His feet rotated without his permission, so that Singe came to face Ronnie again. "Go on."

"They've placed operatives on the ships that have been targeted or taken down to get Alphas on and ready to go. They are hidden in plain sight, something so normal on an airship that no one would suspect. The Alphas look exactly like the originals, just machines. We set them on a timer so that they'll go off automatically, and then…" she trailed off, something like pity in her voice, and—fear?

Dread crept up his throat like bile. "What are they? Are they here? On this ship?"

She didn't say anything, just nodded her head ever so slightly.

He took her by the shoulders, shaking her. "How much time do we have?"

"None." She looked away. "You're out of time."

Suddenly, Singe was unsteady on his feet. He lurched to grab onto the chair before he fell. "We have to be able to stop them. What are they?"

When she met his eyes again, he could see the tears dripping slowly down her cheeks.

"You already know."

Footsteps pounded heavily down the hallway, and an airman stopped at the door, breathing hard. "Captain! There's something wrong with the message lizards! They're going crazy."

Suddenly, it all clicked. In the mountains, when he'd seen the little machines that looked so familiar—everything made so much sense.

He was on his feet and running before Rachel's face had time to pale.

A/N: What did I tell you? 7 pages of scheming Clankers, yogurt-y suspense, and spies! *EVIL LAUGH*

"Parents" Dalek week

This will be my first submission to Dalek week, which starts tomorrow. The theme is "Parents" and I wanted to be a little creative on this one :)

The door closed behind them with a soft click. Light from the setting sun cast long shadows on everything in Alek’s room, much like wormlamps did, but in bright oranges and yellows, not green.

But Deryn wasn’t focused on any of that.

She reached for her prince’s hand, feeling his fingers slide into her like pieces in a puzzle. “Finally,” Deryn whispered, “Some time to ourselves.”

“Mmhmm,” Alek agreed, studying her features in the dim light. She pulled him in close, leaning in for the kiss she’d been wanting for days. The curve of his lips fit on her with a sort of—

“Aleksander!” Volger’s voice called from the hall. Alek pulled back with a start, face pale.

“Mr. Sharp?” Deryn could hear Dr. Barlow at the door to her room, to the left of Alek’s.

“Blisters!” she cursed, searching frantically for an escape route before the count could come barging in. She rushed silently to the balcony, judging the distance between Alek’s and hers.

“They’re like our parents,” Alek groaned, following her. He bit his lip when he realized her plan, but didn’t say anything. He knew by now she could make the jump, easy.

Deryn turned to face him, surprised. “Parents? Barking annoying ones, then.” She climbed up onto the solid stone banister, holding out her arms for balance.

“Very much so,” Alek said from behind her. “You can have them,” he added with a wicked grin.

Deryn shook her head and leaned down to give him a quick kiss, and then leaped quickly over the open space and on to the safety of her own balcony. Her feet connected with the ground in a solid thump, and she turned to give her prince one last, fleeting glance “Dummkopf,” was all she said.

As she raced to open the door for Dr. Barlow, she heard him call softly, “Love you, too!” and smiled. 

Tada! If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, please bring them to my attention.

The Roaring 1920s

This is my submission for "Roaring 20s", day 2 of Dalek week on www.deviantart.com .

If you don't mind a little explanation...
Deryn is in a deviation of the pose made famous by Bonnie Parker (of Bonnie and Clyde, the infamous criminal duo). I chose it for her because, quite frankly, Deryn has attitude. You'll notice that she's wearing a dress (loosely modeled from a 20s flapper dress). Realistically, Deryn would not have been able to be in disguise for very much longer than the books, so in my version of their world, she became on of the pioneers of the "flappers", though only her clothing and hair style was true to the flapper reputation. She's always loyal to Alek, as he is to her.
Alek is wearing a nice sweater (from an advertisement I found online from the mid 20s). He's being all cute and staring lovingly at Deryn while she's being all B.A. and stuff.
Their car is a 1925 Chevy.
I free-handed all of this, using photos as references for Deryn's pose, Alek's sweater, and the car. The hills in the background were admittedly random, but I thought a city-scape would be too large of an undertaking for my yet-amateur skills.
Thanks for reading my blether :)

A Fictitious Interlude

What you see before you is not another chapter of Orion, but a few little ficlets.
So you're probably wondering how these came to be. Have all of you heard of the game "Apples to Apples"? If you have, great. If you haven't, this will be confusing. My brother and I picked out four of the green (adjective) cards per "round" and had to write a fic about one of them. See if you can guess what the words are from just reading them :) I'll tell you at the end what they ACTUALLY were.

Alek bit his lip. This was going to be harder than he thought. What could he possibly get for Deryn on her birthday? He had barely any money, and his first idea had been to make something for her—a card, or something of the like.

But then he had remembered that Deryn was an artist, and he most certainly was not. Anything he could make would pale in comparison to the simplest of her works. So Alek was back to square one. He sat in one of the high backed chairs in their hotel room, miserable.

Flicking at a tassle on the stool with his toe, he didn’t notice Bovril scamper in. It lept onto the back of the chair and down to his shoulder, startling him.

“Any perspicacious advice for me?” He asked, defeated. The loris’s nose twitched, and it cleared it’s throat.

“Be creative,” it said simply, and Alek thought he saw it’s shoulders shrug, if that were even possible.

“Thanks,” he replied drily, sighing. Then it hit him, and he stood abruptly, knowing exactly what to do, and Bovril tumbled off his lap. With a yelp and what was possibly a new curse Deryn had taught it, Bovril stalked out of the room.

A day later, Alek led a blindfolded Deryn through an iron door way, grinning like an idiot. “Why on Earth didn’t you warn me about the elevator?” she growled. “Dummkopf,” she added halfheartedly, not really in the mood to be upset with him. It was her birthday, after all.

Alek didn’t say anything, just reached behind her and slowly untied the cloth over her eyes, letting his arms rest on her shoulders relishing in the touch of her soft golden hair on his fingers. He resisted the urge to lean in and kiss her, but he didn’t want to ruin her view.

She let out a small gasp, taking in the entirety of the London skyline. Then she shrugged, “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she said, but he could tell by her tone and the way her face was lit up that she was amazed. She’d always liked being as close to the clouds as she could get.

“Ah, yes, but not with such a wonderful dinner to go with it.” He pulled out a seat around the table he’d set up earlier that day, perfectly placed for her to admire how high up they were—the highest building in London. Or, at least, the tallest one open to the public—and himself. The food steamed as the cover came off, and Deryn smiled.

“The potatoes are a nice touch,” she said appreciatively, sitting down. “How did you come up with this?”

Alek just smiled at her. “I had to be creative.”

“Well, that’s delicious,” Newkirk said, his lip curled.

“What?” Alek asked incredulously. “How can you find that ‘delicious’? If my English is correct—”

“Did your English classes teach you sarcasm?” Dylan said, not taking his eyes off the enormous pile.

Newkirk coughed and took a step back, waving a hand in front of his nose. “That is one big piece of clart.”

“Well, what did you expect, Mr. Newkirk? The bears are the size of houses, after all. I’m glad I don’t have to clean that up.”

Alek shook his head. “What are we even doing here?” His eyes wandered along the trail, stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. He was comforted by the fact that the Leviathan was moored a mere hundred meters away, ready to take them from the strange lands of Siberia.

“How old do you reckon it is?” Newkirk wondered aloud, ignoring Alek’s question, and picked up a stray stick from the trees that surrounded them, poking at it. “A few days, at least.”

Alek stumbled backward, thoroughly stunned. “Why would you do that?” He would never understand Darwinists, he supposed.

Newkirk shrugged. “For fun,” was all he said, and turned abruptly toward the ship and picked his way along the trail back toward it. Dylan was chuckling a high tone, and when Alek turned his gaze toward him, the boy paled.

“What?” he asked defensively.

“Why ‘delicious’? Of all words, why that one?” Alek shuddered, and the color returned to Dylan’s face. He chuckled nervously and cleared his throat, leading Alek back to the ship.

“I haven’t a barking idea, Your Princeliness.”

Deryn could feel the color rising in her cheeks, making her face hot. She wanted terribly to avert her eyes but couldn’t bring herself to.

Barking spiders, but the boy was trying to flirt with her.

Alek had his forearm laid awkwardly on the table, low enough that he had to lean over in what could not have been a comfortable position. The top button of his shirt was undone. A piece of hair fell over his eyes, and he furrowed his brow for a moment before he blew it from his face with an undignified noise that could only be described as that of an elephant.

“Yes?” Deryn asked, trying to sound more amused than embarrassed.

He propped his elbow up against the table now, running his fingers through his hair. “Hey, there… you.” His voice was low, an attempt at being seductive.

“Hi.” She replied hesitantly, and Alek cleared his throat, standing up and taking a slow step forward.

“I was wondering,” Alek began, and when he voice squeaked at the end, he paled and cleared his throat once more. “If you would like to—um—have dinner tonight. With me,” he added hastily.

Deryn let her mouth drop open slightly, her eyes wide and eyebrows slightly raised. “If you’ll stop doing that.”

“Doing—doing what?” He tilted his head toward her, gazing at Deryn through his lashes.

“That. Flirting.” The word stumbled from her mouth unbidden. She grimaced, almost ready for him to scoff and deny it.

“Oh. Am I that terrible at it?” Alek asked, redoing the button and straightening his shirt.

Deryn nodded. “Hopeless.”

“Well, I’ve reserved a table at that café you like for this evening, if you’d like to join me.”

“I’d love to, Alek, just, please, don’t ever do that again.”

Alek smiled at her, hooking his arm around hers. “I hadn’t planned on it.”

Deryn flexed her bicep. Alek’s eyebrows shot up, and she fought off the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“See it and weep, your princeliness,” she gloated, admiring her own muscles. Deryn looked up in time to see him take a glance at his own arms, slight and thin without a few months of climbing about in the ratlines to have strengthened them up, even though she’d been off them herself for nearly a month.

“I guess I can see the appeal of an airman to a lady,” Alek admitted, eyebrows slightly raised in amusement. 

“Quite masculine, I’d assume. Although, that’s really not what I’m looking for…” he trailed off, waggling his eyebrows at her. Deryn felt her stomach do a little flip, but squashed down the feeling. A barking sod she was if that was all it took to get her insides twisting.

“And what, exactly, is it that?” she asked. Alek chewed at his lip as though trying to form his thoughts into words.

“I think you know, Mr. Sharp,” was all he said. Alek grinned widely and reached out for her hand, leading her away from the crowded courtyard of the Society and into a more secluded area.

Deryn raised her eyebrows as he leaned into her against the wall, his lips inches from hers. “Are you sure about this, Alek? I may be a little too masculine for you to handle.”

“Quite sure,” he murmured against her mouth, and any reply she would have had was smothered by his kiss.

[Insert all your guesses here]

The words were:

Creative

Delicious

Flirtatious

Masculine

Hope you enjoyed these! :)

Chapter 28 (At last!) (As said by SW)

A/N: Sorry it's been so long since I updated, but I've been away taking classes at a college for a week. It was super fun. Anyway, this was an amusing chapter to write. The first part was originally going to be a drabble, but it fit too perfectly with the chapter. And I DID do my research to see if it actually tasted good (It does…)

Luckily for them, the townsfolk were used to drunken sailors acting crazy, so barely any of them were staring. The problem was, though, that Singe wasn't drunk.

"This stuff is amazing!" he shouted, shaking his spoon at Deryn. "I can't believe you don't like it, Dylan!"

She merely raised an eyebrow at him, and Alek tried not to laugh. Both the way Singe shoveled down the yogurt and how Deryn carefully avoided looking at him doing so were terribly amusing.

"That's disgusting," she moaned, swatting half-heartedly in the midshipman's direction. "Would you barking cut that out?"

Her hand fell to the table with a clatter, a bare centimeter from Alek's, stirring up the steam coming off of their mugs. It was deathly cold, being this far north, let alone the fact that it was still winter. The three of them were bundled in a second layer of clothes and still shivering, their breath fogging the moment it left their mouths.

And yet, this was one of the best days of Alek's life.

They'd wandered through town already, and stopped at a quaint little foreign foods café on the square when it had begun to drizzle. It had lasted a mere minute, but Alek was glad for the respite from Singe's crazy fascination with window shopping and Deryn's utter lack of attention to it. She'd been busy watching all the men, eagerly taking in their mannerisms and copying them almost flawlessly.

Alek had been busy watching her.

"Mmm…" Singe waggled his eyebrows at Deryn, enjoying taunting her. She bit her lip and swiped the bowl of yogurt from his hand, dumping it in his coffee.

"Is it so delicious now?" She challenged him. Singe's eyes bugged out, and he stared pitifully at the dissolving mound in his cup.

"Now why'd you go and do that?" he pouted.

"For fun," Deryn said, one eyebrow arched. "Go on. See if you like it now."

Alek bit his tongue laughing, and he stopped paying attention to the midshipman just long enough for him to take a big gulp of the contaminated drink.

Now a few passersby were beginning to take interest, but at least they did it discreetly. They watched over top of their newspapers or ate their food absently, waiting to witness what would happen next. Maybe some expected a fight to break out.

Disappointed in having not seen the boy's initial reaction, Alek kept his eyes riveted on the pair. Singe pursed his lips, contemplating, and then broke out into a huge grin. "Blisters, that's sodding brilliant," he gasped, and then took what was left of his yogurt and slopped it into Alek's coffee, slogging down the rest of his own. "Go on, try it!"

Alek watched the slowly melting, light purple lump in the middle of his mug with distaste, sure that there would be blueberries waiting for him at the bottom. He picked up his spoon and stalled by swirling it around until his coffee had become a creamy brown. Avoiding Deryn's acid gaze, he brought the cup to his lip and sipped.

Black coffee was not something Alek usually liked, but he didn't want to spare even the extra farthing on cream. So when the strong bitterness filled his mouth, he wasn't surprised. But the light taste of blueberry juice took the worst of the tart flavor away, and that was what lingered on his tongue, like the candies his mother used to give him for behaving the few times he'd been in public when his parents were still alive.

It felt like the eyes of the entire square were on him, collectively holding their breath for his verdict.

Careful to keep his tone neutral and his face blank, he said, "It's not bad." It was cowardly of him, he knew, but he couldn't humiliate Deryn in front of so many people, and he couldn't outright lie. So he chose a safe middle ground. "Why don't you try it, Dylan?"
She glared at him, hard, and shuddered. "You couldn't pay me five pounds to do that," she growled.

"Oh, come now, I think we could come to an agreement," Alek coaxed her, holding out the glass. "It's really just the same as putting cream in, and a few blueberries."
The girl must have seen the message in his eyes, because she grudgingly took the coffee and gulped down a small bit. She leaped straight into the air, shouting, "Blisters, that's sodding brilliant!"

It took Alek a moment to realize just how sarcastic she was being, giving her just enough time to lean behind a bush and fake gag.

"Barking terrible, really," she said once the laughter from their audience had died down.
He could see how only the count and Bovril had seen through her disguise. They were so distracted by her boyish charm that the thought would ever occur to them, and no one would want to believe that someone so purely entertaining could possibly be anyone other than who he said he was.

Alek sighed.

"Well, then," he concluded, fishing through his pocket and pulling out a few small coins. "We'd better be off."

"Aye," Singe agreed, and Deryn nodded. They both slapped a coin or two on the table, standing up at nearly the same time. Singe burrowed more deeply in his pocket to find enough for a tub of yogurt to bring back to the Leviathan.

In moments, they were strolling through town again, the gravel of the street grinding under their boots. Alek noticed the difference between his and the other two's. He still wore the boots of his Hapsburg Guard uniform, now repaired several times with the soles almost worn through, and suddenly an idea popped into his mind. Putting his hand back into his pocket, he counted out how much money he had left.

"Dylan, do you mind if we take one more stop before returning?" Alek asked experimentally.

She shrugged.

"We've got until sundown," Singe reminded them. Much to the disappointment of the crew, the captain had announced their curfew as such, which meant the ever-popular nights of drinking and dancing were just out of reach of the weary sky sailors.

"Of course," Alek agreed. "I'm in need of new attire, if I remember correctly." He shot Deryn a glare, making sure she remembered the Society's New Year's party when he'd lost an arm wrestling competition and ended up wearing a dress, and the only reason Deryn had given as to her motives was that she'd wanted to see him in something other than his usual uniform.

"It's about barking time," was all she said.

"I saw a nice little shop on the way here, about a block down," Singe said, pointing to their left. "The prices looked good on their jackets and trousers. The boots were a little pricy, though."

Alek sighed, following the midshipman. Singe's ability to remember things was like Deryn's to track down food—uncanny, amusing, and the slightest bit unsettling.

They stopped in front of a door tucked in between a sweet shop and a hotel, so small that it seemed like an afterthought. Letters painted above the window read, "Paul's Fine Apparel". The small, faded awning was barely as wide as Alek was tall and spanned half the length of the storefront, a thick layer of snow nestled firmly on the top.

Alek would never have looked twice at a place like this in his old life—that's how he thought of it now—, let alone shopped in it.

A bell above the door dinged as he pushed it open, and a heavy-set old man lumbered out from the back. "Hello, and welcome to Paul's. How may I help you?" he said a bit tiredly, but the look on his face said he was happy to have customers.

"I'd like to find a new set of clothes, please," Alek said. "If you could just adjust some ready made things, it would be much appreciated. I haven't enough money for newly tailored clothes," he admitted.

The man looked him up and down, and nodded. "That'll be simple enough. A bit scrawny, aren't ya?"

Alek blinked, looking down at himself. Indeed, he had lost a few pounds since he'd lived in a castle, but he hadn't thought it to be so apparent. He just looked more like Deryn or Singe now instead of a prince, and that didn't bother him in the slightest.

"Can I do anything for the two of you?" he asked, turning to the others. Deryn shook her head, and Singe shrugged, stepping back. "Well, then, it'll be about fifteen minutes. I'll have this lad back to you soon."

He shooed Deryn and Singe off, pulling out some light brown trousers and a tunic of dark blue.

"If we just take this in a little, it should do ya fine." He instructed Alek to don the shirt, and the moment Alek had his off, the coldness hit his chest with a fury. Shivering, he pulled the other on quickly. It was soft against his skin.

Alek stood awkwardly under the seamster's scrutiny. The man saw his discomfort, pursed his lips, and began to make conversation.

"So what's a lad like you doin' up here? You ain't a midshipman, I can tell that."

He frowned, pondering on whether to tell the man his position. "I work for the Zoological
Society of London, Sir, and am here on a diplomatic mission."

"Hmm," the man—Paul, Alek guessed—said. "I know why you're here."

Alek jerked, narrowly avoiding a needle prick. "Pardon me?"

"Everyone's heard the rumors, Lad. Hold still." He pulled a needle through the under arm of the shirt, and instantly that side seemed to fit better. Alek gulped uncertainly.

"About the Sultan," the man told him, "A boy like you's certainly heard about what happened to him in their revolution?"

"He was kidnapped by the Kizlar Agha," Alek offered, and Paul nodded.

"And taken to somewhere mysterious for his own safety. No one's supposed to know where he is, but 'round here, we think he's in the hills on the British Mainland, hiding out, plotting his own comeback with the Clankers."

"I see," Alek said, realizing this was the wild gossip of bored villagers, "And you think we're here to put a stop to him."

"Sharp as a tack you are," Paul mumbled, rolling his eyes. There was a pause as he had Alek pull on the trousers next. Then he asked, "So, are ye'?"

Alek sighed, his nerves now settled, and decided to let the man have something to tell his mates at the bar tonight. "Well, I can neither confirm nor deny that," he said elusively, which made it blatantly obvious what the man would assume the true answer to be.

"Ah, yes." He pulled the needle through swiftly a few more times and bit the end of the thread, tying it. Nodding appreciatively at his work, he held out his hand for payment, and Alek dropped the coins into his hand.

He waved goodbye as he left, clothes in hand, and met up with Singe and Deryn at the end of the street.

As they passed back through the square on their way back to the ship, Alek smiled, seeing that the café's advertizing blackboard had a new item chalked on:

Yogurt in coffee.

Chapter 27

A/N: Hello, dear readers! I have chapter 27 for you, obviously. I realized that I’d been forgetting about both Max and Bovril (Sorry!), so I gave you an ample dose of both of them this chapter. You’re welcome J. I really don’t have anything else, so enjoy!

Disclaimer: I did not magically become Scott Westerfeld, so most of this stuff isn’t mine.  L

“Zeus.”

Deryn turned around to find Max grinning at her in the light of the cargo bay. “Excuse me?” she asked.

“I’ve come up with a name for my Roth Turtle. Zeus.”

Deryn looked at Max accusingly, crossing her arms. Bovril slipped on her shoulder a bit, but quickly regained its position, rolling the new word around in its mouth gladly.

“And why is it you felt the need to inform me of this, Max?” she said, giving him a withering look.

“Because I just knew it would make you smile, Mr. Sharp. Don’t try to hide it,” he chided, and despite herself, Deryn could feel the edges of her mouth tilting up infectiously. “See? I told you so.”

“Bum-rag,” she mumbled, and Max broke into laughter. Deryn stared at him disbelievingly. The man was ridiculously optimistic whenever she saw him. Max couldn’t even bring himself to be properly offended when she insulted him.

Maybe he knew she didn’t mean it.

“A bum-rag indeed, Mr. Sharp, a bum-rag indeed,” he mused. “But don’t you want to know why I chose such a brilliant name for such a brilliant creature?”

“Not particularly, no,” Deryn grumbled at him, but regardless of her answer he launched into a speech of exactly how he’d come about naming the barking turtle “Zeus”.

“Well, you know how all of the Monkey Luddites blether about how Darwinism is so godless? I thought to m’self, what if I fixed that problem and gave Darwinism a god?  So I named my turtle after the most famous of the ancient gods. Problem solved.”

Deryn’s eyebrows rose almost of their own will. “Nice of you to think of everyone. Except that you’re still not supposed to name the beasties,” she added.

He thought about that for a moment, glaring pointedly at the loris and effectively reminding her that there was an exception to that rule right on her shoulder. It simply curled around her neck and returned his gaze, wide eyes gleaming.

“Brilliant. Just barking brilliant. Now you’ve got the beastie saying it,” it said, parroting exactly what Deryn had once said to Alek. “Mr. Sharp,” it added thoughtfully.

Max shrugged. “And I still don’t care.” He gave the bundle of newspapers in his arms a hard look, and then said, “Would you like a periodical? I’ve picked up more than enough for my crew.”

“Aye, if you wouldn’t mind” she said, gladly accepting the thick sheaf of paper. On the front were several tightly spaced columns of print, and the title read, “Shetland Pony Breeders Worry about Wolf Attacks”. Deryn held up the paper and pointed to it. “Now, this here is some quality reading.”

He shrugged. “Anything to pass the time. Good day, Mr. Sharp.” He patted Deryn on the shoulder before turning away to finish overseeing the income of goods.

Deryn eyed the crates of food with undisguised glee. She hadn’t had a real meal in several days, and the thought of one set her mouth watering and her stomach rumbling. She’d best find Alek and Newkirk so they could spend their precious hours in port exploring the city.

“I don’t see why they’re complaining,” Lauren grumbled, swirling the teacup clasped in her hand, “It is their barking fault, after all.”

Alek’s spine went rigid and his cheeks colored. Regardless of the fact that he was well and truly a Darwinist, Deryn supposed, he still had an underlying loyalty to the country of his upbringing.

Deryn had just finished reading a section of the paper on the peace talks between the Clanker and Darwinist powers aloud, both of whom were quite eager to end the war, but neither wanted to admit it. There were war debts all across Europe, and someone had to pay them.

It seemed fair that it should be the Clankers.

“They don’t have the money!” Alek growled, barely containing his anger at the middy. “No one has.”

Bovril shifted uncertainly on Deryn’s shoulder, muttering nonsense very quietly.

“Except America,” Melissa chirped. “Really, you should see all that’s going on back there. Our dad’s the—he’s high up in the government, is all, and he knows we’re better off than the rest of the world. Last I heard, he’s trying to send aid over here.”

“That’s not my point,” argued Lauren. “What I’m trying to say is that Germany and all their lot should have to pay for starting the war. It will teach them not to do it again.”

Melissa raked her fingers through her cropped, dark blond hair. “Or, they’ll hate us and get revenge in the future. Please, Levi, promise me you won’t be going into politics.”

“They need to know that they can’t just—“

“And your solution is for them to instead freeze without roofs over their heads in the winter because instead of fixing their own destroyed cities, they’ve been paying for ours?” Alek’s fingers were pressed hard to the rim of the window.

Lauren was about to agree that, yes, that seemed appropriate when Alek spun around to face her. “They’re people, too! Just like you and me! They have lives! There are children out there who had nothing to do with this war who are suffering, and for what? Because their higher-ups were the daft ones? Tell me how that is fair, I beg of you.” His voice had gone deathly quiet, so that Deryn had to strain her ears to make out his words. “Please.” He steadied his gaze right into her eyes, daring her to contradict him one more time.

Lauren couldn’t meet his glare. She mumbled, “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” and abruptly stood, leaving the mess in a hurry.

“Of course you hadn’t,” Deryn said. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? No one seems to think about it.” Her hand snaked into Alek’s, and his shook in her grasp. He squeezed tightly and nodded his head in thanks.

Newkirk and Melissa made a point not to look at their interlocking fingers. Maybe their minds still hadn’t wrapped around the thought that Dylan—Deryn—Sharp and Alek Hohenberg were together. Deryn felt a delighted twist in her stomach at the word.

“I’d better go,” Melissa said, sighing. “Levi and I should be taking our shore leave soon,” she shrugged, though nothing of her stiff back and pressed lips made the gesture nonchalant. “I’m sorry about him. He can be—”

“There’s no need to apologize for him, Miles,” Alek said.

She nodded to him slowly. “Aye.”

“Speaking of shore leave,” Newkirk began, stretching back in his chair and showing Deryn and Alek a wide grin once Melissa had disappeared, “Are you two going to be off on your own, or is a poor, lonely sap like me invited along?” he asked, and stuck out his lower lip in what was supposed to make him look pathetic.

To an extent, it worked. But then Bovril leapt from Deryn’s shoulder and right onto Newkirk’s, and he yelped, tearing the beastie away and holding it at arm’s length with poorly concealed alarm. It stretched out its wee hands at him, making the Monkey Luddite grimace. “Are we taking this along?” he asked uncertainly.

“Of course you’re coming with us” said Deryn, taking the loris back, and Newkirk’s eyes lit up. “And Bovril won’t be coming; it’s too conspicuous. Right, your princeliness?”

“Yes,” Alek agreed, supplying a small grin. “Say we meet at the ramp in half an hour?”

Bovril climbed up into the ceiling of the mess and peered down at them with interest.

“Sounds great,” Newkirk said, and swiped his jacket from the chair. He bounded to his cabin with a “See you then!” shouted down the corridor.

Deryn raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to the side, shaking with contained laughter. “Barking daft lad,” she muttered, and flipped open the newspaper she’d been clenching in one hand.

Alek let go so she could read it without sitting at the table, and Deryn felt the urge to tell him not to. But it was too risky. The opening to the hallway was in a popular part of the ship, especially with so many crewmen taking shore leave.

She settled instead for feeling the imprint his fingers had left on her palm and began reading an article about what the town’s boffin was up to—pigment changes in fur and skin on beasties.

“How about those purple llamas, Mr. Sharp?” Alek asked playfully from where he’d been reading around her shoulder.

Deryn chuckled. “I think it’s for their horses, Dummkopf,” she said.

“I see,” Alek mused, “Although a purple llama would be most entertaining, don’t you think?”

“Most entertaining.” She took a fleeting glance at the dockyard below, seeing the men scrambling about like dolls. “We should go if we’re going to meet Newkirk.”

Alek pursed his lip, as though considering the fact. “I suppose so.”

He snapped for Bovril, who scrambled down from the ceiling and landed lightly on his shoulder.

“Most entertaining,” Bovril chuckled.

A/N: That really is pretty much what brought about WWII. The Allies made Germany take all the blame and pay the war debts, so they were in terrible shape and looking for something—or someone—to do to get behind and show the world they weren’t worthless and horrible. They were more susceptible to  people like Hitler, who gave them something to blame and a goal to be better not just than they are now, but anything in the world. You see?

Moral of the story; look at both sides when making a decision. And that sounded corny, but it’s true.