But how did boys keep this up their whole barking lives?
Deryn eased the feed bag from her sore shoulders. For once she'd reached the airship's spine ahead of the others, and could take a moment's rest.
"Dawdling again, Mr. Sharp?" a voice called.
Deryn turned to see Midshipman Newkirk climbing into view over the curve of the Leviathan, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking. There were no waving cilia up here, just hard dorsal scales for mounting winches and guns.
She called back, "Just waiting for you to catch up, Mr. Newkirk."
It always felt odd calling the other boys "mister." Newkirk still had plooks on his face and hardly knew how to tie his necktie. But middies were supposed to put on airs like proper officers.
When he reached the spine, Newkirk dropped his feed bag and grinned. "Mr. Rigby's still miles back."
"Aye," Deryn said. "He can't call us dawdlers now."
They stood there for a moment, panting and taking in the view.
The topside of the airbeast was alive with activity. The ratlines flickered with electric torches and glowworms, and Deryn felt the membrane tremble from distant footsteps. She closed her eyes, trying to feel the airship's totality, its hundred species tangling to make one vast organism.
"Barking brilliant up here," Newkirk murmured.
Deryn nodded. These last two weeks she'd volunteered for open-air duty whenever possible. Being dorsal was real flying - the wind in her face, and sky in all directions - as prized as her hours up in Da's balloons.
A squad of duty riggers rushed by, two hydrogen sniffers straining on their leashes as they searched for leaks in the membrane. One snuffled Newkirk's hand as it passed, and he let out a squeak.
The riggers laughed, and Deryn joined in.
"Shall I call a medic, Mr. Newkirk?" she asked.
"I'm fine," he snapped, staring at his hand suspiciously. Newkirk's mum was a Monkey Luddite, and he'd inherited a nervous stomach for fabrications. Why he'd volunteered to serve on a mad bestiary like the Leviathan was a flat-out mystery. "I just don't like those six-legged beasties."
"They're nothing to be scared of, Mr. Newkirk."
Chapter 9
"Get stuffed, Mr. Sharp," he muttered, hoisting his feed bag. "Come on. Rigby's right behind us now."
Deryn groaned. Her aching muscles could've done with another minute's rest. But she'd laughed at Newkirk, so the endless competition was on again. She hoisted her feed bag and followed him toward the bow.
Barking hard work, being a boy.
TWELVE
As Deryn and Newkirk neared the bow, the bats grew louder, their echolocation chirps rattling like hail on a tin roof.
The other middies were just behind, Mr. Rigby in their midst, urging them to hurry. The bats' feeding had to be timed precisely with the fléchette strike.
Suddenly a shrieking mass of havoc swept out of the darkness - an aerie of strafing hawks, aeroplane nets glimmering in the dark. Newkirk let out a startled cry, his feet tangling together. He tumbled down the slope of the air-beast's flank, his rubber soles squeaking along the membrane. Finally he came to a halt.
Deryn dropped her bag and scuttled after him.
"Barking spiders!" Newkirk cried, his necktie more askew than usual. "Those godless birds attacked us!"
"They did no such thing," Deryn said, offering him a hand up.
"Trouble keeping your feet, gentlemen?" Mr. Rigby called down from the spine. "Perhaps some light on the subject."
He pulled out his command whistle and piped out a few notes, high and raw. As the sound trembled through the membrane, glowworms woke up underfoot. They snaked along just beneath the airbeast's skin, giving off enough pale green light for the crew to see their footing, but not so much that enemy aircraft could spot the Leviathan in the sky.
Still, combat drills were supposed to be conducted in darkness. It was a bit embarrassing to need the worms just to walk.
Newkirk looked down, shuddering a little. "Don't like those beasties either."
"You don't like any beasties," Deryn said.
"Aye, but the crawly ones are the worst."
Deryn and Newkirk climbed back up, now behind the other middies. But the bow was within sight, the bats covering it like iron filings on a magnet. The chirping came from all directions.
"They sound hungry, gentlemen," Mr. Rigby warned. "Be sure they don't take a bite of you!"
Newkirk made a nervous face, and Deryn elbowed him. "Don't be daft. Fléchette bats only eat insects and fruit."
"Aye, and metal spikes," he muttered. "That's barking unnatural."
"Only what they're designed to do, Newkirk," Mr. Rigby called. Though human life chains were off-limits for fabrication, the middies often conjectured that the bosun's ears were fabricated. He could hear a discontented murmur in a Force 10 gale.
The bats grew noisier at the sight of the feed bags, jostling for position on the sloping half sphere of the bow. The middies clipped their safety lines together and spread out across the swell of the ship, feed bags at the ready.
"Let's get started, gentlemen," Mr. Rigby shouted. "Throw hard and spread it out!"
Deryn opened her bag and plunged a hand in. Her fingers closed on dried figs, each with a small metal fléchette driven through the center. As she threw, a wave of bats lifted, wings fluttering as fights broke out over the food.
"Don't like these birds," Newkirk muttered.
"They ain't birds, you ninny," Deryn said.
"What else would they be?"
Deryn groaned. "Bats are mammals. Like horses, or you and me."
"Flying mammals!" Newkirk shook his head. "What'll those boffins think of next?"
Deryn rolled her eyes and tossed another handful of food. Newkirk had a habit of sleeping through natural philosophy lectures.
Still, she had to admit it was barking strange, seeing the bats eat those cruel metal fléchettes. But it never seemed to hurt them.
"Make sure they all get some!" Mr. Rigby shouted.
"Aye, it's just like feeding ducks when I was wee," Deryn muttered. "Could never get any bread to the little ones."
She threw harder, but no matter where the figs fell, the bullies always had their way. Survival of the meanest was one thing the boffins couldn't breed out of their creations.