Flight Lieutenant Jaspert Sharp clicked his tongue impatiently. It was a habit he had picked up from the school master in a drafty, Glasgow grammar school. It had originally started as a mocking gesture, something which had irritated the venerable man no end. Then he had left school and was terrified to find out that it had stuck. It ticked off the other officers as well but that was more of a bonus considering most of them were the poncy Sandhurst types and he never minded a chance to mess with those bumrags. Right now though, he was not on the Minotaur. He missed the feel of the airbeast's body, the reassuring mumble of its constituent beasties, the easy numbness of routine. But still, as he stilled his clicking tongue long enough to inhale an invigorating breath of cool night air, he was glad he was here. Glad he was about to make good the oath he had sworn to King and Country when he first joined the Air Service. Glad he was about to make history. Lord Churchill's speech was still ringing in his ears:
"Men of these British Isles, we stand at the cross roads. Today, we must make a choice between two diverging paths. One leads to freedom, for us and our nation. The other leads into the maw of the Clanker Powers. My former cabinet members would make this choice for you. They have already embarked on the path of slavery and bondage. But are we not a democracy? Is that not our pride, a nation which is ruled by its people? So I ask you, the people of Great Britain, will you not partake in a one final vote before Asquith and Lloyd-George strip you of that right too? But this will be no simple election. No! The ballot will be between the two diverging paths and the votes will be arms! Rise up! If you are brave enough to believe in the future your children once had, rise up! If you are strong enough to defy the forces of oppression and militarism, rise up! If you have the will to see this war through to the end, to show those Clankers that the men of the British Isles will not stand idly by as they lay waste to our beloved land. Rise up, I say! Tonight is a night where history will be made. It may be the final chapter in the history of our island nation. It may be the beginning of a new one. But it will be glorious all the same. God save the King!"
And all the assembled men from the Minotaur had roared with him. It didn't matter that the King had taken his own life in Buckingham Palace and the heirs first through seventeenth were trapped in Britain. The speech's effect on the weary crew was astronomical. Then they had played the National Anthem, a song the Germans had banned. Their hearts had soared as the outlawed tune played over the wireless, tears flowing unashamed.
"Yes," thought Jaspert, "I am about to make history."
He clutched the bulky Enfield rifle to his chest. It was a lot heavier than the standard issue Air Service airguns but unlike those pea shooters, this weapon had a chance of penetrating a standard German infantry cuirass with its .303 cartridge. It was distinctly inferior to the semi-automatic Gweher-09 Mauser that the Germans used but it was the best the Free British Army could field. Its unfamiliar weight was heavy on the young man's shoulder but he didn't mind. The adrenaline was blocking out the mundane things like the cold, hard stone of the pavement and the brass cartridges digging into his side, the smell of burnt meat from the pyres of St James' Park, the words of his second in command... What? Jaspert turned to the boy - a sixteen year old midshipman with the most forgettable name known to man.
"Yes, Tom?"
The boy bristled slightly despite his demure manner.
"It's Peter, sir. And the German walker is coming."
"All right."
Ignoring his mistakes in traditional, manly, Sharp family fashion, he turned away from the boy and towards the FBA man. Unlike Jaspert and the midshipman, the FBA man was a footslogger by profession. Despite the fact he was the only man in the unit who knew how to fight on the ground, he was a Corporal and therefore it would not be appropriate for him to order around a Lieutenant, no matter his capacity. So the poor Corporal had to convey all his orders through Jaspert.
"Are the Shadow Dancers in position?"
Jaspert waved at two men on the rooftop across the road. They waved back, a white kerchief in their hands.
"They're ready."
The Corporal already knew that of course, possessing a pair of working eyes but there were standards to maintain and what not. Plus, Jaspert liked his position of authority, even if he was only a proxy. If the Corporal was irritated, it was lost beneath layers of carefully laid professionalism.
"Good. They'll fire once the walker goes past the Post Office. It's probably reach here before it stops. Remember; do not fire until after the Shadow Dancers have been launched. If it makes it past the corner there, we open up with rifle grenades."
At the man's words, Jaspert's eyes dropped to the pile of grenades. In shape, they looked a lot like toffee apples, the kind he had always begged his mother to buy him and had felt too awkward to buy himself once he had a job and therefore the means to pay for one. Still, he knew the toffee covered treat was very different from these weapons. Their ball shaped exterior was covered in sticky goo which would cling to the side of the walker, even if they put anti-magnetic plating. Its plastique charge could give even a Grenadiere a nasty rattle and could knock a Jäger out completely with a bit of luck. A barrage of six would easily stop the German transport long enough for the rocketeers on the roof to reload and fire another shot. At least in theory. In practice, the transport may shred them with its twin machineguns before they had a chance. Or maybe it would have support. Or maybe the infantry had already dismounted and were circling around them, ready to ambush the ambushers. Or maybe...
"Here we go."
The Corporal whispered. Jaspert's mind immediately emptied. As it did, he felt his senses go into overdrive. He could hear the distant march of the approaching walker, feel the midshipman shivering in anticipation, see the rocketeers on the roof pull back the safety and arm their deadly payload. The sound of the walker grew louder, its growling Clanker engines making it sound more monstrous than any beastie. Jaspert realised this was the first time he had ever seen a walker in person. His breath caught in his throat. He had expected it to be large, yes, and perhaps a little intimidating but he had never imagined it to be as huge and terrifying as the mekanical behemoth lumbering down the road towards them. It was easily as large as an omnibus, its front and sides covered with thick plates of dull metal armour. Its six legs moved it briskly, looking like an oversized insect clambering towards them, its jaws wide. On its back, a small metal turret with a spotlight scanned the surrounding buildings. Jaspert ducked as the beam passed him, remembering only afterwards that he was too concealed in the gutted grocery store for it to matter. The walker slunk past, its spotlight fixing on the roof with the rocketeers for a moment, before moving on. As the forelegs reached the Post Office, there was a high pitched screech. From the rooftop opposite their position, a plume of white smoke shot towards the German walker. Immediately, the turret turned and began firing, its magnesium tracers like bright knives cutting through the air. The noise was deafening but Jaspert realised he could hear the Corporal counting down beside him.
"Six, five, four..."
The machine gun was chewing through the brick and mortar of the building with awful ease. The rocketeers would be torn apart very soon.
"Three, two, one..."
The machinegun stopped firing, leaving a ringing in Jaspert's ears. In its place was the horrible sound of men screaming, turning almost instantly to pained gurgling and then silence. The razor sharp wings of the Shadow Dancer butterfly's could flay exposed skin and flesh with appalling ease. Combined with their fabricated love for sweat, it made them impossibly destructive in an enclosed space. The rear door flew open and a man fell out, screaming bloody murder. As he did, a cloud of flickering shadows dispersed from the metal insides of the walker into the night sky. The Corporal turned to Jaspert and grinned.
"I didn't think you flyboys could pull it off."
Jaspert shrugged with false modestly. Then he turned back to the road. The German soldier was lying on his back, his arms over his face. The sleeves were in shreds and dozens of tiny cuts covered his forearms but his throat and face had been protected long enough for the door to open which had probably saved his life. As he tentatively lowered his arms, he saw half a dozen British airmen and soldiers advancing towards him. He let out a strangled cry and his hand flew to his holster but the Corporal was already running up. As the Clanker fumbled with the holster's leather strap, the Midshipman brought his rifle butt into his face. There was a crack that made Jaspert shudder. It sounded like when Deryn's arm had tangled in a landing rope and snapped. The Clanker fell on the ground, his pistol forgotten and hands clutching his nose. The Corporal kicked away the dropped revolver and the German raised his hands in surrender. The Corporal nodded and lowered his rifle. Then he drove the butt into the Clanker's stomach. The man fell to the ground, with a cry clutching at his belly. The Corporal grabbed the German by the front of his uniform and pulled him to his knees.
"Tell me, where you at Baker's Street?"
The German began spouting an incomprehensible stream of Clanker and was only silence when the Army man gave him a brutal backhand to the face that split the man's lip and caused ugly purple bruising around his right eye.
"WERE YOU AT BAKER'S STREET?"
The German recoiled at the man's shout and nodded furiously. The Corporal nodded and then pushed him back onto the ground.
"Then you should know how this works."
Jaspert and the other Air Service men watched curious as the German staggered to his feet. As he did, the Corporal hit him with the rifle butt again, causing him to fall on all fours.
"Go on. Do it!"
The German did not seem to understand anything at all so the Corporal "helped" him. With another push, the man was flat on his face, his eyes level with the Corporal's boots. The Army man pushed his boot into the Clanker's face.
"Go on! Lick it! Just like what you made Will do! Remember? You dragged him out of his house and made him lick your boots in front of the entire street. Go on!"
After a moment, the Clanker figured it out and tried to back away but the Corporal was insistent. Eventually the German submitted, to hoots of laughter from the assembled airmen. The Corporal grabbed the soldier by the hair and pulled him up to kneeling.
"Do you know what happened then?"
The Clanker shook his head, his eyes pleading.
"You dragged him in front of his family. You made him say goodbye to his wife and daughter. And then you told him to open his mouth."
The Clanker clearly failed to understand so the Corporal literally tried forced the man's jaw open. The Clanker struggled and gave pleading looks to the airmen but they were all too filled with morbid curiosity to halt the Corporal's monologue. The Corporal removed his bayonet which caused the Clanker to open his mouth of his own accord.
"Do you know what happened next?"
The Corporal shoved his rifle's barrel into the man's open mouth. He was grinning now. Around, the airman watched with a mix of horror and fascination. The Clanker let out a strangled sob that went ignored.
"I'll give you one guess."
-0-
Fourth Army Command, Istanbul
"So only the Eastern Quarter is still hot?"
The Lieutenant nodded curtly.
"We have the rebels contained in that sector. Once the 88th Armoured is in position, we will pick through the neighbourhood, street by street. The 88th is well equipped for this sort of urban fire sweep."
"Casualty projections?"
"High."
The Brigadier General gave the Lieutenant a sharp look.
"That is... Around two thousand men. Fifty or so walkers."
The Brigadier looked surprised.
"For a ragtag bunch of irregulars and civilian walkers? We cleared out forts filled with Russian veterans without that kind of carnage."
"Well that is the problem. We've always fought conventional. The men aren't exactly used to the sort of war where any civilian on a street might saunter up to them and blow themselves up."
The Brigadier General stared hard at the map. The enemy had learnt how to use civilians as both a shield from the German artillery and a disguise for their saboteurs. It disgusted and fascinated him in equal measure. The orders he was getting from Berlin (and the Sultan for that matter) were to treat all approaches as hostile; a bureaucrats way of saying "fire at will". He knew it would only aggravate the situation. But every day he lost more men. Sooner or later, someone would snap and there would be a massacre. The last thing he needed were pictures of German soldiers machine gunning unarmed civilians. The populace was already aggressive enough.
"What about her?"
The staff stiffened. Rumour dictated that the daughter of Christaphor Zaven and granddaughter of the family matriarch - Sansa, had been captured. The girl, Lilit, had harassed German forces for weeks in her customized "Minotaur" walker. If anyone knew the rebel strongholds, she would. Then the Military could target all of then simultaneously secure any remaining weapon stashes and field hospitals, bringing the resistance to its knees in one swoop and allowing the German forces to finally withdraw from the blood soaked city. After three months fighting the Russians and another one fighting the CUP, they were all ready to go home.
"Colonel Leer, can you deal with it? She's housed in the Hürriyet Sanatorium just outside the city. Captain Israel and Dr Haus are stationed there."
A grey haired man nodded. As the staff lost interest and turned back to their work, the Brigadier General leaned towards him and whispered with some disgust:
"The Sultan has her grandmother's head on a pike. From what the bureaucrats back in Berlin are suggesting, the man wants the girl's head too. So as well as overseeing the interrogation, I'll need you to keep the Sultan's men out of the place for as long as possible. We need the information she has. So as much as I hope the dear Sultan will throw us out of this godforsaken city, I don't want a diplomatic incident either. Be subtle but delay them until Dr Haus gets the details we need."
"Understood, sir."
-0-
Israel slumped back in his chair, suddenly exhausted. He wondered if he should be soothed by the soft browns and cool stone of the building. Whether or not it had an effect was beyond the Captain's tired mind. He wanted nothing more than lie on his bed and wake up in Nuremburg, preferably in some girl's bed, with his studies over and a letter from Mercedes or one of the other mekanical giants begging him to join them. Instead he would awake to an empty sanatorium, a bowl of that awful gloop their Turkish auxiliaries served them for breakfast and then...
The door rattled as someone knocked. He wondered idly if the inmates of the sanatorium were able to break down the feeble partitions between their cells and the rest of the building. Before he could ponder further, the door was pushed open. Haus stood there, his haughty smile dancing around his eyes. His mouth remained in its omnipresent frown, as if the world was constantly disappointing him.
"Evening, Captain."
Hans felt a very strong desire to throw something at the good doctor. One of his dress boots was on hand but he lacked the energy to even grab it. He responded with bitter resentment.
"What is it, Haus?"
The amusement in the man's dark brown eyes intensified.
"You look terrible. Catch."
A heavy glass bottle flew from the man's hand towards the seated Captain. His hands flew up, managing to snatch the small jar before it hit him in the face. He glanced at the label. Emotion Suppressants - Level IV. He twisted off the cap. It was empty.
"Screw you."
He threw the empty bottle back to the doctor who caught it deftly and returned it to its pocket. He spoke with mock concern.
"Those things will take twenty years of your life."
The Captain gave out a disgusted sigh but didn't argue. His head fell back, telling the other man to leave. Needless to say, he didn't take the hint. Or he simply ignored it.
"Colonel Leer wants to bring her off the sedatives. Against my better medical judgement, I have done so. She'll come to in the next hour."
"Why are you telling me this?"
The Doctor sighed as if the answer was oh-so-obvious to the extent that it was a waste of oxygen to verbalise it.
"You caught the Scarlet Demon. If you..."
"I caught a sixteen year old girl! That doesn't exactly make me a hero."
The doctor continued smoothly as if he had not been interrupted.
"If you don't take advantage of this opportunity, someone like Leer will take all the credit and they will get promoted out of here instead of you."
"How very suspicious of you, Dr Haus."
Another man had appeared behind the doctor. His grey uniform was impeccable, a stark contrast from Israel's discarded jacket and rumpled shirt or the Doctor's non-regulation coat, non-regulation omniscope and very much non-regulation corduroy trousers. The man ignored the Colonel's barbed comment and greeted him with his typical breezy indifference.
"Ah, Colonel! I was wondering when you would appear."
The Colonel made a disapproving noise at the back of his throat but Dr Haus was a civilian and his authority was limited. He contented himself with asking:
"When will she awake?"
"Within the hour. Captain Israel has just volunteered to assist."
The man in question shot the doctor a dirty look and began the arduous task of extracting himself from the chair and attempting to pull himself together mentally. He had rather more success with the former than the latter but under the imperious gaze of Leer, he got himself in some semblance of order and the three walked together to the Detention Wing. As they walked, they passed a pair of Turkish auxiliaries hosing down the stone cells. The three men pretended not to notice the red tinge of the water or the clumps of things which might have been dirt or... other things. The Sultan had used the Sanatorium as a political prison before he had gifted it to the Germans as a field hospital and they were still finding grisly remains of the Secret Police's work in some of the rooms. One of Haus' first acts upon arriving had been to brick up the door to the electroshock therapy room. No-one needed to ask why.
Haus led them up to the Trauma Ward. The rooms here were larger and had only one bed with room for bulky medical equipment. Two men in Military Police uniforms stood outside, eyes forward. Israel and Leer surrendered their sidearms before entering. Haus pulled the omniscope over his eyes. It was an odd, boxy contraption made from cedar wood and brass with a broad glass strip allowing him to see out and a row of brass holes for electrodes right below it. Along its right side were a dozen or so little brass levers and knobs. He manipulated them with practiced fingers and there was a sound like sharpening blades as the internal mechanisms reshuffled themselves. Bulky glass lenses began twisting and then slid into place in front of his eyes. A bright electrik light turned on and then dimmed. A pair of delicate brass arms reached out the top to which he clipped a piece of photographic paper and they disappeared back into the machine. Israel gave the machine a worried look. While Dr Haus had not gone the full way and had the omniscope grafted over his real eyes like many professional surgeons, it remained an unsettling sight. The man's face was covered down to the top of his mouth and his breathing became more ragged and nasal as the synaesthesia electrodes clicked into place along the neurones inside his nose. The omniscope was a device designed to allow a doctor to be aware of as many bits of information as possible at any one time, going as far as use electrik pulses on the nasal neurones for things like heartbeat, freeing up the ears and eyes for more complex information. It could be connected to medical equipment to monitor a patient's vitals during an operation and display photographic negatives over the doctor's view of the patient, allowing him to check photographs of similar cases or x-ray images against the actual patient. It also had a myriad of focusing and magnification lenses for precise surgeries.
Dr Haus' head jerked slightly as the machine reacquainted itself with the more sensitive parts of his face. Then it was done and they entered. The room was painted faded blue, unlike the bare sandstone of the rest of the building. It gave a feeling of warmth and unexpected comfort. The bed was screened by a curtain. Behind it, he could hear the low whirr of machinery, monitors and autoinjectors. Dr Haus walked to a small wooden table and pulled some gloves from a bowl of disinfectant. He then used his elbow to push away the curtain. The two officers started. Israel bit his lip and even Leer's cool eyes widened momentarily.
Lilit Zaven lay on the starched linen of the bed, her eyelashes fluttering as the sedatives wore off. Her dark hair was fanned over her pillow and her arms lay atop the sheets. Apart from the needle in her elbow, she looked perfectly normal, a teenage girl deep asleep. It was disturbing. For Israel, the operation had been a rushed affair. One of the men had found her and he had run over. She had clung to him, screaming in horror and swatting at the darkness. In that state, covered in dirt and blood, not all of it her own, and with madness in her eyes, it had not been difficult to see her as just another crazed rebel, an enemy soldier not a teenager. Now her expression was one of peace and comfort. Her face was clean and surprisingly pretty. He felt sick. There was no denying it. Lilit Zaven was still very much a child. His mother had always said that Hell had a special corner for men who harmed children. As he recoiled from the sight, her eyelids fluttered harder. Then they opened. She tried to sit up but Dr Haus placed a hand gently on her chest and pressed her down. She stared at him, her brown eyes filled with fear.
"Who... Where... Why?"
Her words tumbled out in quick succession, barely comprehensible in her rising panic. The Colonel's hand dropped to his empty holster. Haus made soft hushing noises as he checked her vitals. Then her eyes focused on Israel. Her brown eyes widened in surprise and... something else. A delighted smile broke across her features.
"Father!"
-0-
"Oh god!"
"Calm down, man!"
"Why the hell should I calm down? That girl thinks I'm her goddamn father! What the hell is wrong with her?"
The Colonel looked on impassively. They had fled the room at the girl's declaration, the MPs staring as Haus and Israel began a shouting match. At the last comment, he decided to join the conversation.
"While I do not approve of the Captain's language, I second that inquiry."
Haus looked at them. His eyes were hidden beneath the omniscope but his voice conveyed what his usually expressive eyes and eyebrows could not. Danger.
"Do you want to hear my diagnosis?" He practically spat. "I'd say intense emotional trauma from the death of her family followed by two weeks of intense combat and fifty grams of metal shrapnel in her stomach. Then exposure to Alptraumgas at roughly three times the recommended dosage and to someone at least two years below the minimum tested age. Who knows what effects it could have had on her brain chemistry? Some may have been suppressed or more likely they are confused with whatever nightmares she had when she was under. Alptraumgas is a misnomer. They aren't actually nightmares - they are in the same plane of mind as waking thought. That means that they are, as far as the mind is concerned, real. Konigsberg Syndrome: her nightmares have become her whole reality. Her own bed stand could be her father for all she knows. Perhaps Israel just has a passing resemblance and she's just clinging to that. I don't know. I'm not a psychotherapist."
The Colonel grimaced but then his expression lightened.
"But this may also be an excellent opportunity."
Israel shot him an angry look.
"What do you mean?"
"She thinks you are her father. You should have no problem extracting the necessary information from her."
Israel gave the Colonel an appalled expression.
"I am going to pretend to a child that I am her dead father so I can force her to betray her friends? That's just disgusting!"
Leer's expression hardened considerably. When he spoke, it was in the bark of a commanding officer.
"I will not tolerate any more insubordination on your part. I let you get away with a lot due to Battle Fatigue and Shell Shock but unless you start acting like a soldier of the Empire now, I'll drag you to the stockade myself. Now get in that room and follow your orders!"
The Captain recoiled from his superior like a drunk might recoil from a bright light. Behind him, the Doctor raised his hand in mock salute and muttered under his breath:
"For Kaiser and Fatherland."
-0-
The mass use of incendiary munitions was banned by the Treaty of Cologne in 1907, as was the use of biological acid. The reasoning was quite simple. For the Clankers, the best way to kill a creature was to use either white phosphorous or thermite as even high explosive shells could not incapacitate an enraged warbeast fast enough to prevent the thing wreaking havoc on their walker battalions. Similarly, the use of acid-producing larvae was the cornerstone of Darwinist anti-armour doctrine. In theory, preventing both sides from using such weapons would discourage them from fighting altogether. In practice, it was too little too late and by the time the war started, both sides had already given up on the Treaty. Still, the Germans were not stupid enough to start dropping incendiaries over oh-so-flammable London, right?
It astonished Deryn how she managed to think of all that in the time it took for the mortar shell to arch overhead and promptly detonate in a blinding flash of white light. The afterimage of the mortar's path was imprinted in her vision as the delicate nerves in her eyes were overwhelmed by the powerful phosphorous flare, like the purple glow from the flash of a camera. Dimly, she was aware of people staggering around her, also blinded by the sudden light. She curled tight into a ball as heavy work boots pounded into the ground around her. Someone tripped over her and fell in a tangle of flailing arms and legs. She rolled away and tried to stagger upright, still blinking away the effects of the flare. As she did, she felt someone grab her roughly and push her to the pavement. She was about to protest when the ear-splitting retort of automatic gunfire assaulted her eardrums. It was like a dozen firecrackers going off in quick succession, held inches from her ear. She tried to move away but more people were running around her, their armoured forms knocking her back. She stood and was immediately pushed down. Something thrust itself in front of her face, empty glass eyes and bulky filters. Almost deafened by the gunfire, Deryn could still make out the tinny words:
"Stay down! Do you want to die?"
Deryn nodded and the thing disappeared. For a seemingly endless moment, the gunfire went on. And then it pattered out, leaving only a ringing in Deryn's ears. She breathed in to steady herself and began coughing from the acrid taste of gun smoke. In the distance however, the gunfire persisted. Clearly, the riots were bigger than she had first thought. The strange glass and metal face came through the haze and the same tinny voice asked her in uncertain English:
"Are you well?"
"I am... I am fine."
The face nodded its helmeted head.
"Good. I am glad we got here in time."
By now, Deryn had rubbed the after-effects of the flare out of her eyes and looked around. A pair of large six-legged walkers stood in the middle of the street. Men in the grey overcoats and dull metal cuirasses of the German Army walked between them, their rifles unslung. Large machineguns pointed from the walker's front like the mandibles of a scarabesque and more helmeted heads and rifles stuck out of the armoured body. Down the street, a dozen limp bodies lay sprawled on the pavement, their airguns and other weapons toy-like compared to the vast bulk of the German walkers. She turned and started. The German soldier who had rescued her had removed his gasmask which was now bouncing on his chest as he walked over to her. He was much younger than she had expected, barely a few years older than her. He gave her a lopsided smile.
"You are safe?"
His English was not as fluent as Alek's or Volger's and his statement ended up sounding like a question. Deryn replied in German to put him at ease.
"Yes. Thank you."
He nodded and spoke in German.
"It was no problem. The Army protects its Hiwis."
Deryn gave him a questioning look.
"Oh, sorry: Hilfswillige. We call them Hiwis. It means helper. You are translator, yes? That's why the rioters were targeting you."
Well, that was a safer option than saying that she was protecting an exiled Prince of Austria. She was about to ask for more when one of the other German soldiers ran over, a bulky field radio strapped to his back.
"Sir! Major Färber is demanding that we head back to base. The rebels have made a move on Wormwood Airbase and we can't evacuate with that airbeast overhead."
All of their eyes drifted upwards at that. The airbeast was still circling above London, seemingly indifferent to the brutal fire fights being waged in the streets of the capital. The remains of the zeppelin had fallen somewhere in the beyond their line of sight, marked by the orange glow of distant fires. After a moment, the young German officer found himself and nodded.
"Yes. We should head back to Horse Guard Avenue at once."
Wait... Had he just said they were headquartered on Horse Guard Avenue? As in... Deryn stepped up to the officer, a wide smile on her face.
"You don't happen to need a translator, do you?"
I am considering starting a new Leviathan based story. The fact is the way I write and how I like to portray people and events is very different from the way Mr Westerfeld does. If I do start a new one, it will probably be in an original setting but with Leviathan's characters. I think that would allow me to do all of the nasty things I do to people (this chapter being one unbroken stream of human misery after all) without feeling like I am ruining Westerfeld's own world. I don't know. Give me some thoughts and we'll see how it goes.