Skybreaker (34 page)

The Babelites had already made one attempt to sabotage the Celestial Tower. They’d tried to kidnap the chief engineer but had botched it, and some of them were caught and jailed. I looked at Christophe in astonishment.

“I can’t believe you’re one of them,” I said.

“It is not for man to build a gateway to the heavens,” he said. “God meant heaven for those good souls on Earth who’ve
earned
it. The tower is an abomination and must be struck down.”

“You lunatic,” said Andrew, “you’ll kill thousands of people!”

“If we do not topple it now,” Christophe said, “it will be toppled by God’s own hand. We have planned our explosion to make the tower fall away from Paris. We are trying to minimize the loss of life. You may think us mad, but we will be remembered as heroes.”

I doubted this very much, but said nothing. Christophe and his followers acted with a zeal I couldn’t comprehend.

“Set it going,” Christophe told Pierre.

The gaunt fellow pushed the clock’s long hand back to ten minutes before twelve. He gave the winding key several complete turns. A dreadful sound emanated from the contraption, more a gasp than a tick.

Hunh-unh-hunh-unh-hunh-unh-hunh-unh …

“And what about us?” Andrew shouted.

“I am, of course, desolate,” said Christophe, “but sometimes these things are necessary.”

“You mean killing us!”

One of the other Babelites tossed Christophe a bulky backpack, which he caught with his free hand and slung over one shoulder.

“Yves,” Christophe said. “Go now.”

Yves wasted no time stepping to the open bay doors and jumping out. I was close enough to the edge to see narrow parawings explode from his pack. They were extremely manoeuvrable, for the man made a sharp turn and went soaring out of the pier through a set of girders. He had enough height to sail a safe distance from the tower before the bomb exploded.

“You cowards!” spat Andrew, and Christophe levelled the gun at his head to discourage any last-minute heroics.

“Pierre, go!” said Christophe.

Before Pierre could take two steps to the doors, the ticking stopped with a wheeze, like a dying man’s final exhalation.

Hunnnnhhhhh …

My eyes flew to the clock. The minute hand was still nine minutes from twelve.

“What is wrong with it?” Christophe demanded.

Pierre gave a shrug and said, “It is temperamental.”

“It’s run out of tick,” snapped Christophe. “Did you wind it properly?”

“
Mais oui,
” said Pierre, “but with the mediocre materials you give me to work with, what can you—”

At this Christophe exploded into an angry torrent of French, which his compatriot returned with much gesticulating and shrugging. During all this, the other Babelite kept his pistol
aimed at Hassan, Andrew, and me, nervously glancing between us and his fellows.

“
Mon Dieu!
” Christophe said, throwing up his hands. “Just wind it up some more. Imbecile!”

Pierre stepped towards the clock, but before he could touch it, the wheezing tick resumed.

Unh-hunh-unh-hunh-unh-hunh …

He turned to Christophe. “
Ça marche.
It’s good.”

Christophe’s face was rigid with contempt. “Perhaps I should make you stay behind, to make sure it is, as you say,
good.
”

Pierre gave a shrug. “It will work. I have tested it many times.”

For a few seconds Christophe stared at the timer as it wheezed on. Then he blew air noisily through his lips. “Pierre, go. You too, Jules.”

Looking grateful, Pierre jumped out the bay doors and deployed his parawings. Jules followed.

Christophe turned his pistol on the rest of us, shrugging his parawing pack onto both shoulders. “Would you prefer that I shoot you, or would you like to go down with your ship?” he asked me.

“Down with my ship,” I said, though I had no intention of dying today.

“Very well,” he said. “I am sorry.” And as he clipped together his chest harness, the pistol fell from his nervous hand.

All three of us sprang at him, Andrew with a savage roar.
Christophe lunged for his pistol. We landed atop him in a heap, kicking and punching. The pistol spun away across the deck towards the open bay doors and I launched myself at it, snatching it up just before it went over the edge. I leapt to my feet.

“Get up!” I shouted, aiming my pistol at Christophe.

Breathing hard, he stood.

“Shut it off!” I yelled.

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, only Pierre knows how.”

“Bollocks!” shouted Andrew, striding towards me. “Give me the gun, Cruse!”

He snatched it from my hand, fumbled it, and it fell to the deck.

As Andrew scrambled to pick up the gun, Christophe ran for the bay doors. Hassan and I grabbed him from behind and we all struggled on the very brink. Christophe punched me in the face and jumped towards the opening, but Hassan had him firmly by one of his shoulder straps and pulled back with all his weight. Christophe spun around, the parawing pack flying off his body and onto the deck. He staggered off balance, arms windmilling, then with a cry fell through the bay doors—to his death.

The three of us stood panting, staring at one another.

The bomb wheezed in its crate.

“How much time do we have?” Hassan asked.

I ran over and looked. “Seven minutes.”

The tick faltered a few seconds, then resumed. I had no idea
whether this meant we had more time, or whether the infernal device was still keeping track of the seconds and meant to surprise us.

“What if we just rip out the clock?” Hassan suggested.

“That might set it off,” I said. I knew nothing about explosives but didn’t fancy my chances tugging at wires.

“I want off this ship!” bellowed Andrew.

“There’s no point!” I said. “We can’t climb down in time.”

“Who said anything about climbing!”

At the same moment all eyes fell on Christophe’s parawing pack.

“Sorry, lads,” said Andrew, springing on it. “It’s only good for one.” He looked at me, a little shamefaced. “And captain goes down with the ship anyway, right?”

He still had the pistol, and though he did not point it at us, I didn’t trust him. Hassan and I watched as he buckled on the pack.

“You know how to use that?” I asked. I couldn’t bear him much ill will. Someone might as well get clear in time.

“I’ll take my chances. Good luck.”

He jumped out the open bay doors. I saw his wings deploy, and he careened crazily around the girders before colliding with one, hard. The blow seemed to knock him out, for his head lolled and his wings crumpled, and then he fell, bouncing from one girder to the next on his fatal plunge to the earth.

I wasted no more time. “Cut the grappling lines,” I told Hassan. “There’s a knife in the emergency locker.”

I ran forward to the helm. Even from up front I could hear the bomb’s wheezing. I started the engines, and the propellers quickly accelerated into a satisfying drone.

“We’re cut loose!” Hassan shouted, running up front. “What’s our plan?”

“Dump it in the drink.” On the southern fringe of the Bois de Vincennes was an ornamental lake.

“Will we make it?”

“We’ll make it. Take the elevator wheel.”

“I’ve never flown!”

“There’s nothing to it.”

I pushed the throttle and gripped the rudder wheel. There was no time to try to ease out backward. Our only way out was straight through. Before us was a narrow passage that would bring us out the far side of the pier. I opened the throttle. Girders hurtled past us, the underside of the platform streaking overhead.

“Just hold her steady, Hassan, you’re doing very well.”

He stood, shoulders hunched up around his ears, staring straight ahead with wide eyes.

I saw the opening coming up, a narrow slat of brighter light. We were straying a little too high, but before I could ask Hassan to correct our altitude, an awful ripping sound came from the ship’s back. Warning lights flashed on the ballast board. We’d torn most of our gas cells but there was no time to worry about that now.

Suddenly we were through the pier, but still underneath the tower’s first platform. I reached over and gave the elevator
wheel a swift turn so that we dipped sharply and shot beneath one of the tower’s colossal arches, and then—we were out!

“Bring us back up now, Hassan,” I said.

Aerotugs glided all around, seeming to move incredibly slowly. I weaved through them, banking sharply and climbing as I took us out towards the park and lake.

“There it is!” shouted Hassan.

“How much time’s left?”

Hassan ran aft to check. “Two minutes and a bit!” he called. “Wait, it’s stopped … no, it’s going again!”

My heart was beating madly now. The wind was light, and I lined the
Atlas
up so that we’d pass directly over the lake, then tied off the rudder wheel and hurried back to help Hassan.

Together we shoved the crate gently to the edge of the bay doors. I had no idea how sensitive the thing was and held my breath, fearing we might set it off. We peered down at the parkland—people sitting on benches, children playing—and waited breathlessly for the water.
Where was the lake?

Unh-hunh-unh-hunh-unh-hunh …

Silence.

I looked over at the timer. The minute hand had stopped altogether, just a shade before twelve. Then, as if making up for lost time, the clock started ticking with surreal speed, gasping like a marathon runner in his final stretch.

Hish-a-hish-a-hish-a-hish-a hish-a-shhhhh …

With horror I watched the hands swirl around, as though the insides of the clock were uncoiling.

“There’s the water!” shouted Hassan.

“Heave-ho!” I bellowed.

We put our shoulders to the crate and pushed it over the rim. It plunged down and hit the lake with a mighty splash.

“Grab hold!” I yelled.

“Maybe the water’ll put out the—” Hassan began.

Then a colossal fountain burst from the lake. The blast tossed us to the deck. Cabin windows shattered. Hot wind shrieked past, creating a hellish symphony in our rigging. Then, finally, silence.

“It’s spent,” gasped Hassan.

“Good work,” I told him, struggling to my feet and back to the helm.

We were losing gas swiftly, and the rudder must have been damaged, for the
Atlas
was sluggish to turn. But we would make it safely back to the aeroharbour and, with a bit of luck, I might even be on time for Kate.

Skybreaker Copyright © 2011 by Kenneth Oppel.

Published by Collins, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

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EPub Edition AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 9781443411301

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