Skybreaker (33 page)

“Not at all. I feel quite attached to it.”

“It saved our lives,” I said. “With you at the helm anyway.”

“Those things Hal said about you—you mustn’t listen to him. He’s being hateful.”

“If it were my ship, I’d probably get drunk too.”

“You asked me a question earlier,” she said. It took me a second to remember. “Oh. ‘Am I better wealthy?’ I don’t think you need to answer that anymore.”

“It still seems an important question to me.”

“You have the answer?” I asked.

“Yes. Well, no. Because it’s completely up to you.”

“Is it? Just say you had to choose. The rich or poor Matt Cruse.”

She smiled. “It doesn’t matter to me in the slightest. It never has.”

“Really?” Just looking at her, I realized she was telling the truth. “But it matters to other people,” I said. “It matters to me. More than I’d care to admit, and that’s a fact.”

“That’s important to know,” she said.

“Hal thinks I’m destined to be a chauffeur. Does that repel you?”

“Not at all,” she said. “It’s always best to be in the driver’s seat, isn’t it?”

I laughed.

“Although,” she went on, “right now, I appear to be in the driver’s seat.”

“You certainly are.”

“Climb aboard,” she said, “and tell me where you’d like to go.”

I smiled. We had the hangar all to ourselves. I saw a foothold in the ornithopter’s flank, stuck my toes in, and started to heave myself up to the cockpit. But something gave way beneath my foot with a bang, and I slipped back to the hangar floor.

“Are you all right?” Kate asked, peering down.

“It’s some kind of cargo hatch,” I said, squinting into the small compartment I’d unwittingly opened. There were two white sacs inside and I pulled them out, one at a time, for they were heavy.

“They’re pillow cases,” I said.

“What’s inside?” Kate asked.

I opened one and stared in utter disbelief.

“Gold,” I said.

“No, really. What’s inside?”

I grinned and held it up to her so she could see the lustre of the smooth bricks.

“Oh, my goodness!” she cried. “No wonder the ship felt heavy!”

“Hendrickson,” I said, “that little sneak! Grunel’s manservant filched some gold and tried to make off with it!”

“Where did he get it though?” Kate wanted to know.

I hadn’t yet told her about the store of gold in the secret passage, and as she clambered down from the cockpit, I quickly filled her in.

“How many bricks are there?” she asked.

We dumped them out on the floor and counted them. Forty. I did the math.

“That means thirty-two for Hal, and four each for Nadira and me.” My heart was beating fast. “That’s enough for Hal to fix the
Saga
and get out of debt.”

“And it’s a very nice windfall for you and Nadira,” Kate said. “You won’t be the richest young man in Paris, but you certainly won’t be the poorest.”

“I don’t think I’ll mind that at all,” I said.

Kate and I just looked at each other. The gold’s glimmer was nothing compared to the brightness of her face. I took her hand in mine and felt once more that sense of homecoming. I wanted to pull her tight and kiss her, but that would have spoiled it somehow, because I wouldn’t have been able to see her eyes. And as long as our gazes met we were like a current. We were electricity, and together we could have powered an aerial city. My Himalayan heart felt big as the sky, and just as strong.

KENNETH OPPEL
is the bestselling author of
Airborn
, which won the Governor General’s Award, the Ruth & Sylvia Schwartz Children’s Book Award and the Red Maple Award, and was also named a Michael L. Printz Honor Book in the United States. The sequel,
Skybreaker
, also won the Ruth & Sylvia Schwartz Children’s Book Award and the Red Maple Award. Oppel’s Silverwing Saga—
Silverwing
,
Sunwing
,
Firewing
, and the prequel,
Darkwing
—has sold over a million copies worldwide and has won numerous awards, including the Mr. Christie’s Book Award and the CLA Book of the Year for Children Award. Kenneth Oppel lives in Toronto with his wife and three children. Visit him online at
www.kennethoppel.com
.

AUTHOR PHOTO BY PETER RIDDIHOUGH

“A rollicking adventure…. A grand, no-holds-barred imagination.”

—
Toronto Star

“With its charismatic characters, imaginative settings, sensuous language, page-turning action, sprinkles of humour and bracing insights into universal truths,
Skybreaker
is a compelling read for Oppel’s fans of both genders and of all ages.”—
Books in Canada

“Creative, compelling, nicely unpredictable and alive with nature and technology.”—
Kirkus Reviews

“The action rarely flags in this old-fashioned adventure tale, set in an alternative universe in the earlier part of the 20th century, and readers, especially those who read Airborn, will enjoy the thrilling ride.”—
KLIATT
(Starred Review)

“An irresistibly ebullient blend of adventure, mystery and romance…. It dragged my son back to enjoying reading.”

—
New Statesman

“Oppel outdoes himself every time, developing a complex world with a rich and enticing atmosphere, creating a fast-paced plot of action and adventure, and scripting quirky and eclectic characters.”—
Calgary Herald

“Oppel delivers edge-of-the-seat adventure in this imaginative sequel to his bestseller
Airborn
.”—
Today’s Parent

Starclimber

Airborn

Darkwing

Firewing

Sunwing

Silverwing

Dead Water Zone

The Live-Forever Machine

(
For Younger Readers
)

Peg and the Yeti

Peg and the Whale

Emma’s Emu

A Bad Case of Ghosts

A Strange Case of Magic

A Crazy Case of Robots

An Incredible Case of Dinosaurs

A Weird Case of Super-Goo

A Creepy Case of Vampires

The exhilarating action climbs to new
heights as the Airborn series continues.

To read an excerpt from
Starclimber
, turn the page…

R
ISING INTO THE WIND
, I flew, Paris spread before me. For the first time in my life I was at the helm, though my ship was a humble one, and not my own. Aboard the
Atlas,
we didn’t even use terms like
captain
or
first mate.
This was no fancy airship liner or private yacht; she was just an aerocrane, forty feet from stem to stern, but she was mine to command for the summer, and I loved every second of it.

“Elevators up five degrees, please,” I told Christophe, my co-pilot. “Throttle to one half.”

As the drone of the engines increased in pitch I put the ship into a gentle starboard turn. We climbed, and I brought the
Atlas
about so that we faced the construction site. Though I had gazed upon it almost every day for two weeks now, the view still filled me with awe.

Rising two miles above the earth was the base of the Celestial Tower. Massive metal piers and arches supported its platforms, each one large enough to hold a city. The third platform had just been completed, and work on the next level was well underway, great spans of metal jutting skyward. Gliding over the site were dozens of aerotugs, delivering materials and prefabricated sections of piers to waiting work crews. From all across the tower came the flash of welders’ torches, fusing
together girders. Already the structure was ten times higher than the Eiffel Tower, but it had much farther yet to go.

It was meant to reach all the way to outer space.

There was so much airship traffic around the construction site that it had its own harbourmaster. His voice crackled over the radio now, giving us our approach instructions. Hanging from the
Atlas
’s winch was a three-storey-tall section of support pier to be delivered to the tower’s northern side. I turned the rudder wheel and brought us onto our proper bearing, circling the tower in a wide arc.

“Did you hear,” said Christophe, “that already they have named it the Eighth Wonder of the World?” Christophe was a Parisian, and extremely proud of the tower. He seemed to have an endless supply of information about it.

I nodded. “I saw it in the
Global Tribune
this morning.”

“How high you reckon they’re going to build this thing?” asked Andrew, coming forward from the cargo area, wiping his greasy hands with a rag. He was the winch operator, a hefty, red-faced fellow from Angleterre who’d moved to Paris, like so many others, to find work on the tower.

“I heard about sixty miles,” I said.

Christophe sucked his tongue in disagreement. “
Non, non, ce n’est pas vrai.
I heard at least six hundred.”

“Suits me,” said Andrew. “The higher they go, the longer I have a job. At these wages, I’ll be retired with me own castle before long.”

I too felt lucky. Piloting an aerotug for the summer would fund my final two terms at the Airship Academy. The French
had hired tens of thousands of workers from all around the world. It was the greatest construction project in the history of mankind. The French boasted it made the Great Pyramids look like an afternoon garden project. Nothing, they said, would topple it. It was designed to sway, to bend with the elements, but never break. I hoped they were right, because if it ever did, it would fall over half of Europa.

“I thought it was meant to go all the way to the moon,” said Hassan, our Moroccan spotter, coming forward to peer out the windows of the Control Car.

“How could they do that, you numbskull?” said Andrew, whose tone was often a bit bullying. “The moon orbits around us, doesn’t it? We can’t go tying ourselves to it! We’d get all yanked about.”

Hassan nodded amiably. “Yes, I can see that would not be desirable.”

“At the summit of the Celestial Tower,” said Christophe with patriotic confidence, “I read, they will launch a fleet of ships to travel into outer space, first to the moon, and then beyond.”

This certainly seemed to be the government’s plan. All over Paris, buildings were plastered with posters—paris to the moon! or the martian riviera!—and showed chic ladies and gentlemen strolling through crystal lunar palaces or along red Martian beaches. Another poster proclaimed, our brave spationauts! and had a group of fit young men in silver suits, fists against their hips, staring arrogantly into the heavens.

“What I’d like to know,” said Andrew, “is where they’re finding these fellows daft enough to go to outer space.”

“They’ve set up some kind of special training facility, haven’t they?” I said.

“I have heard this also,” said Christophe wistfully.

“I think our Christophe here wants to be a spationaut,” Andrew sniggered.

“I am desolate I do not have the skills,” said Christophe, and he did manage to sound quite desolate when he said it.

“What about you, Matt?” Hassan asked. “If they asked, would you go?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“You’re a madman,” said Andrew. “Couldn’t drag me up there, not in a million years.”

“Of course, they will only be selecting Frenchmen,” Christophe sniffed, “so no need for you to worry.”

“The French are welcome to space,” said Andrew, “the entire black puddle of it.”

I didn’t share Andrew’s disdain. As cabin boy aboard the
Aurora
I’d spent lots of time in the crow’s nest, staring at stars. Their constellations blazed with myths and legends. I’d always wondered what it would be like to go farther, to get closer. At the Academy last term we’d studied celestial navigation, and now the night sky beckoned me with even greater intensity.

But for now, space was for the French, just as Christophe said, and I’d have to be satisfied with helping them achieve their dreams. I didn’t feel too sorry for myself. My own dreams at the moment didn’t live in outer space anyway, but much closer to Earth.

“We’re almost in position,” I told my crew. “Let’s get ready, please.”

Despite the fact that I was the youngest aboard, the others never questioned my command, not even Christophe, who always gave the impression of knowing everything. My crew didn’t call me Captain, or Sir, or Mister, but I didn’t expect it. They knew I had authority of the ship, and I think they trusted me. We’d worked well together so far.

Andrew and Hassan went aft. The aerotug’s gondola was a single long cabin, taken up mostly by the cargo area, where the powerful winch was positioned above the open bay doors.

It was Andrew’s job to control the winch and Hassan’s to make sure we were positioned perfectly before lowering our cargo. From his caged spotter’s post on the underside of the gondola, Hassan had an excellent view of what was directly below, and he gave me directions via speaking tube. His job might have sounded lowly, but it was vitally important.

“Level off, please,” I told Christophe, and throttled back, swinging us in towards the tower’s north edge. I saw the waiting work crew below, the signaller guiding us in with his orange flags, and then we were almost overhead and Hassan was the ship’s eyes.

“Slow ahead, slow, we’re almost at the mark,” came his voice through the tube.

I cut the engines right back so that we had just enough power to keep us dug in against the headwinds. Then I let Christophe take the throttle so I could concentrate on the rudder wheel for the final manoeuvres.

“Nudge her to port,” said Hassan. “Too far—bring her back a bit, you’re drifting astern … We’re on the mark!”

I heard the winch’s motor hum as it unspooled. It was always a tense time, lowering the cargo, because we had to keep the ship as steady as possible. Some days the crosswinds gave us a terrible shake.

“They’ve got hold of the guy lines!” said Hassan. “We need another twenty feet, slowly.”

Andrew unspooled more cable. I knew the workers would already be shunting the tower segment into place. Welding torches would flare to life, red-hot rivets would be swiftly hammered home. The tower had just grown another fifty feet.

“They’ve cast us loose,” Hassan said through the speaking tube. “Winch up!”

I put the throttle ahead a quarter and pulled us away from the tower. Behind us, the next aerotug was already waiting to deliver its own load.

“That’s us done,” I said. We’d delivered our last load of the day, and our shift was over. I was looking forward to a break—and to seeing Kate this evening. I had a special surprise planned for her.

“What about this one?” Andrew asked from the cargo area.

I glanced back and saw a single wooden crate secured against the rear wall. I’d not noticed it until now.

“I thought we’d made all our deliveries,” I said to Christophe, reaching for the clipboard that held our manifest.

The sound of boots hitting the deck made me turn. A man had dropped from the companion ladder that led up to the gas cells. In his hand was a pistol.

“Back against the wall!” he shouted at Andrew, and at Hassan, who’d just climbed out of his spotter’s cage.

Two more men dropped from the ladder, guns clenched in their fists. All three wore construction coveralls. On their backs were bulky rucksacks.

Before I could radio a distress call, one of them, a pale fellow with a gaunt face, strode over and put a bullet through the transmitter. Then he levelled the gun at my head.

My first thought, absurdly, was:
I’m going to be late for Kate.

“What the hell’s all this?” Andrew roared.

“Easy, everyone,” I cautioned. I didn’t know who these fellows were, or what they wanted, but it would do no good to anger them. Christophe seemed calm enough, though his cheeks were flushed. I was most worried about Andrew, for he had a brawler’s temperament and I feared he might do something rash.

I doubted these men were pirates, for we had nothing of value aboard. Maybe they were escaped convicts and needed speedy passage out of the country. They must have been aboard my ship the entire afternoon, waiting.

“We are going down to the southeast pier,” Christophe told me. “The first platform.”

I looked at him, confused, before realizing what was going on.

No one was pointing a gun at Christophe.

“You understand?” he said.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

“We fly normally. Do not try to attract attention. We shall begin now.”

He was keeping me at the helm, which meant he didn’t know how to fly the ship alone. I took the rudder wheel and eased the throttle forward. “Elevators down three degrees.”

I would not say
please
any more. My heart beat wildly and I was glad I had my flying to keep panic in check. The back of my head burned, as if the pistol projected deadly heat.

“Why’re we going down there?” I asked.

He ignored me.

“Christophe, you great gaseous frog!” Andrew roared. “What d’you think you’re doin’?”

“Shut your pie-hole or we’ll gag you!” one of the other men said.

I guided the
Atlas
down towards the first platform, watching carefully for other airships. Our flight was unauthorized and right now the harbourmaster would be trying to raise us on the radio. Frightened as I was, it irked me to know that the harbourmaster and other pilots in the area would be thinking me an incompetent menace.

The southeast pier was one of the four cornerstones of the tower, a massive fortress of interlocking girders that supported not only the first platform, but all above it. We were approaching it from the south at three thousand feet. I throttled back, not wishing to draw too close. I had no idea what Christophe’s intentions were.

“Level us off,” I told him.

“No. We will go underneath the platform.”

“Underneath?”

“Correct. Inside the pier.” He pointed through the window at the close weave of girders. “There.”

“I’m not sure there’s room,” I said.

“There is room,” he said with complete assurance.

“You’ve studied this, have you?”

“A great deal,” he said.

We were headed straight for an opening that looked no larger than the
Atlas.
A cross-gust shook us off course, and we both struggled with elevators and rudder to keep us on target, for there was little margin for error. In we went, nearly grazing the underside of the platform. Stray ten feet to either side and our engines would be sheared straight off. We glided deeper inside.

Christophe reached for the throttle and killed the engines. “Tie up the ship,” he shouted back at his men.

The gaunt fellow who’d had his pistol trained on me strode aft to help.

“Your work is done,” Christophe said to me, pulling a pistol from inside his jacket and grabbing my arm. He marched me into the cargo area, where his men had thrown open the gondola’s side hatches. They held grappling lines, and let fly. The hooks caught hold amidst the girders, anchoring the
Atlas.

I looked down through the open bay doors and saw the ground through a criss-cross of girders, three thousand feet below.

“You two!” shouted the gaunt fellow at Andrew and Hassan. “Bring the crate over here.”

Glaring hatefully at the hijackers, Andrew slowly walked over to the crate with Hassan. The two of them released the straps and pushed it across the deck towards Christophe.

“That’s far enough,” he told them, when it was within ten feet of the bay doors. “Back against the wall. You also,” he said, giving me a shove.

“I never liked him,” Andrew growled to me. “Always so full of himself.”

I looked over at Hassan, who was very quiet, and I saw his hands shaking.

“Open it, Pierre,” Christophe said to the gaunt man.

The fellow obediently holstered his gun and pushed back the crate’s lid. Inside was enough dynamite to knock the face off the moon. I felt sick, thinking that this had been aboard my ship all day without my knowing. A complicated tangle of fusing sprouted from the dynamite and fed into some kind of archaic-looking device that seemed half steam engine, half grandfather clock. The clock face had two hands, both pointing at twelve o’clock, and underneath was a large winding key.

“You’re Babelites!” said Hassan in disbelief.

All Paris had heard of these fellows. They hated the Celestial Tower and were dead set against its construction. They took their name from the Tower of Babel in the Bible. That tower was a giant ziggurat meant to reach all the way to heaven. But God was angered by the Babylonians’ arrogance and made all the workers start talking in different languages. They couldn’t understand each other, and the ziggurat was abandoned and fell into ruin.