Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments)

by Arthur Slade

  Despite the retreat, he wished to strike a blow against the Guild. But his special dragoon project at the Pacific naval base was an egg not quite ready to be hatched. No one—not even the Queen or the Lord Admiral—knew of it.

  He rang the bell on his desk. A moment later Footman opened the door. The Chinese man was perhaps the best hand-to-hand fighter Mr. Socrates had ever employed.

  “Please find Cook and accompany him here. I have orders for both of you.”

  Footman nodded and gently closed the door.

  Mr. Socrates was beginning to fear that he had become too emotionally invested in the boy—no, not boy, for Modo was a young man now, fifteen or sixteen, and as such, rebellious. It was to be expected. Were you not rebellious with your own father? he mused. Mr. Socrates had struck out on his own, joining the army at age sixteen and attempting to conquer the world. What he wouldn’t give to have that vitality in his bones again.

  He lifted the gray photo of his wife from his dresser. He had carried it all these years, had even stowed it safely in his kit bag on his adventures through the Queensland jungle. His memories of her were as faded as the image itself. She had died during childbirth and he had lost his child minutes later, a boy with a weak heart. Mr. Socrates had cradled the dead weight of his son in his arms. The world was a hard place, but when he looked at the image of his beloved he tried to remember he had once been a softer man. Had once felt the pangs of love.

  And so what of Modo? The agent had unequivocally disobeyed him. Twice. And yet Mr. Socrates found that he didn’t have the resolve to punish him properly. The young man was such a spectacular talent, possessed such an impressive intellect. He had devoured every book handed to him, understood concepts far beyond his age. And his shape-changing abilities made him the greatest asset the Association had ever had.

  He didn’t want to lose Modo to whatever half-wits had abandoned him. If he’d attempted to prevent Modo from leaving Montreal, the young man was damnably dutiful enough to have tried to rescue his parents himself. Mr. Socrates had no choice but to give Modo the needed support.

  And if there was a last secret to be gleaned from Modo’s parents, if it was true they’d been located, then it was necessary to keep them from the myriad enemies of England. What havoc hostile forces could wreak if they had their very own shape-changing agent.

  If it was the Clockwork Guild that was pursuing Modo’s parents, then it was dire news indeed. The organization had constructed a giant of metal and flesh to attack the Parliament buildings, had sailed halfway round the world in a warship more powerful than any other on the seven seas, and had swooped through the Australian skies in a massive airship. Mr. Socrates could not imagine what it would be capable of with an agent similar to Modo.

  No, it was better that Modo nip whatever was developing in the bud. He had sent the girl because, despite her smart mouth, she did have a vested interest in keeping Modo alive. And there was no one else he could spare.

  He had to discover more about the Guild. He had to be proactive and to strike at its heart, once and for all. Britain was a big target, and the Clockwork Guild must have a large operation to have built such impressive war machines. These things didn’t materialize out of thin air. They required foundries, docks, and treasuries jammed full of money.

  But where had they been hiding all this money, all the armaments? What country would grant them sanctuary?

  Cook entered the room, Footman beside him. Cook had been a pleasure to have in the house; while Mrs. Finchley had been adequate in the kitchen, he was excellent.

  “I’m sending you on a hunt for documents,” Mr. Socrates said.

  “Paperwork, sir?” Cook asked. “Would rather you asked me to charge up some enemy hill.”

  Mr. Socrates laughed. “It will have to be a hill of paper. And please, before you go, make some of your famous asparagus soup and roast pork with dinner rolls. It would be nice to enjoy that at least one more time.”

  “It’ll be an honor, sir,” Cook said. “I won’t forget the sweet cream butter.”

  6

  Yet Another

  Fraudulent Marriage

  Octavia laughed as Modo stumbled under the weight of her luggage, bumping the guardrails of the gangplank. He regained his balance and they boarded the SS Ottawa. Serves you right, silly man, she thought, not allowing me to carry even one piece.

  She held the second-class tickets in her hand, wondering if such a lowly fare was a sign that Mr. Socrates was becoming a miser. Or perhaps he wanted to teach them some lesson or other. At least it wasn’t steerage. Those poor people traveled like cattle.

  Octavia and Modo were led by a gruff steward to a cabin near the aft stairwell. Inside was a bed, a minuscule writing table, and, Octavia noted with satisfaction, a tiny water closet—they wouldn’t have to use the public toilet.

  “Well, husband, we’ve been in worse digs than this,” she said as Modo closed the door.

  “It’ll do,” he answered. “It needs airing.” He went to the porthole and opened it. He was wearing the Doctor’s face—that was how Octavia referred to it—one of only a few he had shown her. She found it familiar and distant at the same time. His real face, the disfigured one, still burned in her memory.

  “Are you enjoying our second fraudulent marriage?” she asked.

  “One marriage to you was enough. A second is a trip through Dante’s Inferno.”

  She didn’t like his tone and didn’t know what he meant by Dante, though the inferno reference she assumed to be something hellish.

  “Oh, you will feel the inferno,” she promised. “I was far too kind as a wife last time, hiring a drunk captain and scouring the Atlantic as you drifted to certain death in a diving bell.”

  “I’m sorry, Tavia,” he said, “I was just trying to be clever. It’s true. I owe you my life for finding me adrift on the ocean.”

  “You owe me thrice over by my count. And last night you were going to leave without me.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I heard your exchange with Tharpa.”

  “Don’t you ever stop spying?”

  “My window was open. It’s not my fault I have such good ears.”

  He sighed with a huff. “Truth is, I didn’t think it likely that you’d go with me. After all, you don’t speak French.”

  “Au contraire, je suis le tout!”

  “You just said, ‘I am a muddlehead.’ ”

  “I did not! Tu es le muddlehead.”

  She began to giggle, Modo smiled his handsome Doctor smile, and they both laughed.

  “Modo,” she said when they had caught their breath again, “why don’t we watch our departure from the deck? The air would be good for us and our humors.”

  “Then let us go, dear wife.”

  He offered his arm and she took it, surprised that he held it all the way up the stairs, as though they really were married. As second-class passengers they had access to the promenade, so they watched as the Ottawa left the dock, bound for Liverpool. From there they would board another steamship, headed to Le Havre. It was the quickest route from Montreal to Paris, for there were no steamships that went direct.

  Octavia was sad to leave Montreal. For a small backwoods city it had heart, with the Scots, the Irish, even a few English all working for a new life in a new land. And the Canadian French were so different than the French in France. Rougher around the edges and more likely to swear. Of course, she based her judgments of the French on that tart Colette. They had met in Iceland.

  All morning, despite the cold, they read under blankets on their deck chairs; at lunchtime, they had chicken sandwiches in the second-class saloon. After their meal, Modo withdrew his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, saying, “I must return to the cabin.”

  Octavia knew what this meant. He could no longer maintain the visage and shape of the Doctor. These transformations could be held for only a few hours at a time.

  “I’ll wait here,” she said. “I’d like t
o visit the ladies’ saloon. Perhaps there’ll be some action there. You know, needlework, gossip, penning morose diary entries.”

  He managed a smile and bowed, grimacing briefly, then turned abruptly. She recognized the sweat on his brow, the look of … of pain, that was it. It actually hurt him to change. And she wondered at his lifetime of changing, of learning to be a chameleon. How much did it hurt him? He had spent so many hours manipulating his bones, his very flesh, all for the service of Mr. Socrates and Britain.

  He had once revealed his true appearance to her but had not done so since. She preferred it that way. It had taken all of her willpower to look him in the eyes in the Australian rain forest. She hoped she would be able to do it again but didn’t want to be tested yet.

  She spent a few hours in the saloon reading Pride and Prejudice as the other women played the cottage piano. Back at the cabin she opened the door slowly. Modo was seated by the porthole, wearing his mask. His shoulders and back, so perfectly proportioned as the Doctor, now looked lumpy and malformed. He was staring out at the ocean.

  “I have returned, husband,” she said jauntily.

  Modo nodded. Without taking his eyes off the water, he said, “If you had the chance to see your parents again, would you?”

  “No,” she answered without hesitation. She sat on the end of the bed. “I’m not as sentimental as you, Modo. Remember, they left me at the orphanage with a note saying burden.”

  “Do you think I’m a fool for traveling all this distance to attempt to save my parents from a mysterious threat?”

  “I’d expect nothing less of you. You’re far more noble than me.”

  He laughed. “I can’t tell if you’re serious.”

  “I am. And there’s always the chance that you have brothers or sisters. That’s the one thing I wish to know, whether I have a sister or a brother. You know, someone as clever and quick and handsome as me.”

  “If it be so, watch out, world!” He smiled, then became serious. “It’s good to have you along, Tavia. It feels … well, there’s no one else I’d rather share this journey with.”

  “You’re not going all maudlin on me, are you, husband?”

  “Never!”

  “Good. I suggest we dine on the upper deck tonight. As you know, I can eat more than ten men. I plan on making those piano-playing ladies roll their eyes.”

  7

  A Clockwork Mind

  In the Central Pacific, on the island of Atticus, Miss Hakkandottir entered the main doors of the Crystal Palace, walking briskly past the saluting guards. She strode into the copper-plated elevator and barked, “Observation deck,” at the soldier operating the controls. The elevator rose in swift silence. Despite her dark mood, she found the interior of the palace, viewed through the glass doors, impressive. Her eyes were drawn beyond the twenty-eight-foot fountain to the hundred-foot brass clock that towered over the inner plaza. Its face was a clock within a triangle—the symbol of the Clockwork Guild.

  In earlier days it had bothered her that he’d chosen to replicate the British Crystal Palace in Sydenham Hill. The British had built it for the Great Exhibition and had raved about its majesty for more than twenty years now. She would have gladly crashed an airship into it, just to see them all moan and gnash their teeth.

  But as this palace had been brought piece by piece to the island and raised to the heavens, it grew into a building that made the original look like an oversized greenhouse. It was beautiful, yes, but more important, it was a hundred times more practical than England’s flimsy structure. First off, it was nearly impregnable, made not of glass but of a quartz as impenetrable as any stone. And should there be a siege, its airship dock meant it could be resupplied for months.

  The soldier slid open the elevator door and Miss Hakkandottir marched onto the observation deck, a room with translucent white quartz walls that glowed in the sunlight. Round observation windows faced all four directions across the Pacific. The roof was retracted and the sea breeze played with her red hair and gently wafted the six-foot-wide feathered wings hanging from the iron rafters. They were symbolic of some Greek story or other, but since it was an imaginary tale it wasn’t important for her to recall it.

  The Guild Master stood in the center of the room, surrounded by twelve operators sitting at quadruplex telegraph machines and handing him strips of paper. He was not a tall man, but he was wiry and strong. He wore a gray military uniform without any insignia and simple gold-rimmed glasses. He could easily have been mistaken for a library custodian. Miss Hakkandottir knew much better. He was the greatest tactician in the world.

  He pushed up his glasses and continued to read. This was how he kept his eyes on the world. The world! From here he gave orders to agents in all four corners of the earth, purchased metals or armaments, bought and sold stocks, all without a moment’s hesitation. He’d formed a perfect plan in his head and each command spoken, each message sent, brought the plan that much closer to fruition.

  Miss Hakkandottir didn’t know exactly what the plan was, but she suspected it was larger than bringing the pompous British Empire to its knees. She sometimes wondered if it was the Guild Master’s intent to control every single government in the world. A foolish thought, for who could exert such power? Even Alexander the Great had failed to accomplish it.

  Though the Guild Master was small and lean, Miss Hakkandottir feared him. For his mind could outpace hers a hundred times over. And though his face was pleasant, behind those glasses his eyes were ice. Rarely did he express anything resembling an emotion. Many years before, when she’d been captain of a Chinese pirate ship, she’d first been summoned to his Hong Kong lair. It had stunned her to discover that this nondescript white man was at the heart of a massive criminal organization that ran half of China and nearly all of the opium trade. Even then he had an aura of power.

  She knew nothing of his earlier life. He could be Danish or French or Russian. Even British. He had no accent, and she’d lost count of how many languages he spoke.

  She waited. It was best not to interrupt him during his work. He wrote a final missive and spoke to a telegrapher in German. Then the Guild Master turned to her.

  “Ah, Ingrid.” His tone was flat. His eyes, such a consistent dark brown that they appeared almost black, examined her. “You’ve been so helpful over the years.”

  She tensed. “Am I about to be retired?”

  He let out a dry chuckle. “No. I only experienced a moment of sentimentality. I apologize. I have also been disappointed by your mistakes: the sinking of the Wyvern under your command is a fine example.”

  The loss of that ship had nearly broken her heart. The Guild Master had allowed her to name it so that it truly belonged to her, though he’d expressed some regret that she’d chosen a name that wasn’t from the Greek pantheon. How she’d loved those iron decks and perfect guns. But now it languished at the bottom of the Atlantic. All due to Modo. “I should have done better.”

  “Ah, that is true. My design for the Wyvern was tempered by my hubris, though. I should have closed the interior compartments so that a blow to the hull would not have allowed all the lower chambers to fill.” Had he just admitted a mistake? She almost fell over. “But don’t forget, Ingrid, you lost our henchman Fuhr in the Thames and allowed our mechanical giant to be captured by the British, and you failed to retrieve the God Face in the jungle. A disturbing pattern of losses.”

  She squeezed her metal hand into a fist. “Am I here to be chastised?”

  “No. I seek only to remind you that you are not perfect.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  He nodded. “Do you have any thoughts about the disappearance of Mr. Socrates?”

  “He is hiding in one of his lavish homes. Do you want me to hunt him down?” The mere thought of it made her heartbeat quicken, her bloodlust rise. How she would love to corner Alan Reeve—or Mr. Socrates, as he fancied himself now—and skewer him right through the heart with her saber. After all, he’d been th
e one who’d cut off her hand. She should perhaps thank him for that, since the metal hand was her greatest gift. But she still remembered the pain of the blow during the sword fight. He would pay for that.

  “You’re dreaming of revenge, aren’t you?” the Guild Master said. His eyes were measuring her again. “Don’t deny it. You get a crinkle between your eyebrows when you dream of such things. I’ve toyed with the idea of flushing him out, along with the rest of the Association. We shall remove the members of the Association from the board one by one. But at this point, I don’t want to take any resources away from Project Hades and the myrmidons.”

  She’d heard him mention this project several times and she knew that the bodies arriving daily at the island were part of it. She also knew that myrmidon meant “warrior”; she’d asked Dr. Hyde for the definition. She was growing tired of having to know every single Greek myth. If only she understood the grand plan behind it all.

  “What is it you want me to do?” she asked.

  “There’ve been interesting developments in France. Our search for more—how shall I put it?—flesh is progressing at a satisfactory rate.”

  “And why do you mention this?”

  He paused, deep in thought. She knew better than to ask another question at this point.

  “I was going to send you there,” he said a second later, “but I have reconsidered. Lime is progressing nicely, and you and your airship skills are needed here. Our assembly of the myrmidons is of the utmost importance.”

  “You want me to transport bodies?”

  “Yes. An airship is faster than boats. I have ordered you a larger airship, though construction will not be finished for three months. We’ll make do with our older airships. Soon we’ll have more than enough material.”

  “Is this a demotion?” she asked, then quickly added, “Sir.”

  He smiled. “No. You enjoy being in the air and your efforts will help the Hades project come to … well … to life.” Another dry chuckle.