by Arthur Slade
It was an important but boring task to transport the dead back to Atticus. She had brought a total of one hundred and seven bodies to the catacombs of the Clockwork Guild’s lair. There was something sacred about the job. She laughed. Sacred? When had she ever been concerned with spiritual matters?
The trip took three days. She did love being airborne. From here she could look to the northwest, where the giant shipyards on the coast of China were building three new steam-powered Guild battleships: the Hydra, the Gorgon, and the Medusa. They would be larger and more powerful than the Wyvern, her last battleship. No navy would be able to stand in their way. Each ship would be accompanied by a fleet of steam-powered Triton boats. Any and all nations would tremble at the sight of this armada.
She had no desire to be the captain of a seafaring vessel—if she was to be captain of anything it would be in the air. No nation—not England, not Germany, and not France—had an airship with as much weaponry and speed as the Hera. With enough coal and food she could strike London and vanish into the night before they even knew who had dealt the blow She imagined having a hundred airships at her command. No. A thousand! The stunned world would be in awe of her.
“I want a perfect landing this time,” she said to the pilot. The wind was blowing out of the northwest, and the crosswind would make it difficult. “Yes, Captain,” the pilot replied. She noted that his hand was steady on the wheel. Good. Only the best of the Guild soldiers could work with her.
Below them three small Triton boats were cutting through the water at a speed she estimated to be over twenty-four knots. In a short time there would be a hundred of them. The Guild Master had some plan or other at play, but he was always so secretive about his grand intentions. Even Dr. Hyde, whom she could twist into whatever shape she desired, had been secretive.
The pilot lowered the flaps and a gust of wind banged the Hera against the dock, a rattling that made the ship shudder. It was enough to set Miss Hakkandottir’s nerves on edge. She grabbed the pilot with her metal hand, ignoring his pleading, and lifted him over the side of the open car. “You’ll land perfectly next time.” Then she dropped him. He fell several feet before grabbing onto the landing rope and slipping down it to the ground. She was disappointed. Not even a broken leg.
As the soldiers began unloading the cargo, she climbed down the net ladder and strode across the island to Dr. Hyde’s cave. The Crystal Palace glowed with the red light of the setting sun; the dull Pacific evening was still warm and humid. She felt as though she was being watched from the palace’s observation deck. That was how the Guild Master wanted her to feel: watched. He had numerous telescopes and would often look down on his creations; perhaps he was watching her right now as she marched up the hill and into the cave. She straightened her shoulders.
Dr. Cornelius Hyde was under the gaslight holding two tubes in almost the exact same position she had left him in nearly a week earlier. The man, old as he was, rarely stopped working. If she were to make a sudden noise, he would startle and drop the tube, smashing it and destroying the contents. She had done that only once before and set his work back by days. So she cleared her throat lightly until he looked up.
“Ah, Ingrid. It is such a pleasure to see you.”
“And you as well, Cornelius. I have brought you more fine specimens. How does your work go?”
“It is frustrating, Ingrid. Typhon was such a success. He made me feel I was born to design human beings.” He paused. “That does sound somewhat mad, does it not? But I see so much potential!” He lifted his hands to emphasize his point. “Every molecule. Every cell is connected. Run through with veins and nerves. And with Typhon I was able to animate it all using that metamorph’s finger.”
“Metamorph?”
“Agent Modo. Metamorphs—like a tadpole to a frog and back again. Remember how he changes shape? There is something about his cells, his blood that, combined with the right electrical impulses, brought Typhon to life.”
“You do remember who brought you his finger, don’t you?” she said slyly.
“Of course, Ingrid. I praise you every day for that. But I need more of his tissue.” He pointed at the empty cages where several chimpanzees had once been. There was also an aquarium on four wrought iron legs. Inside it was a large octopus that had seven arms. “All other attempts have failed. The secret is in his flesh.”
“Would you like me to bring him here, piece by piece?” she asked.
“Ah, if only you could. But the Guild Master has promised me more material very soon. Typhon was only the beginning, Ingrid.” He grabbed her by the hand. “Imagine if you could live forever in a larger and more powerful body. Imagine that? Never breaking down.”
“It would be glorious,” she admitted.
“Well, it is within my grasp. We are marching toward a beautiful and brave new world.”
Perhaps he was mad, but he hadn’t been wrong yet.
13
A Stronger Woman
Inside the fiacre, Octavia’s eyes moved from the window to her pocket watch and back. They had asked the driver to stop in an alley, where they had a good view of the whole bureau. The building and grounds looked to be quiet, guards standing upright at their posts. No alarms had sounded since Modo had disappeared inside. The two young women spoke in hushed tones. “Remind me how long you expected this little adventure to last?”
“According to my calculations it would take Modo three minutes to enter the building, four minutes to reach Quint’s office, less than a minute to pick the lock. He’ll need at least ten minutes to find the proper files. Then he has to retrace his path back to the gate. Therefore, I estimate twenty-five minutes. Though we should allow him at least ten minutes’ leeway.”
“Thirty minutes have passed,” Octavia said. “Any moment now he should be walking out that door.”
“You care about him deeply, don’t you?” Colette said
Octavia was about to say something glib, but when she saw the look on the young woman’s face she fell silent. Colette seemed sad, even forlorn. As much as Colette raised her hackles, Octavia couldn’t help admitting, “I do. There are few like him.”
“There are none like him,” Colette replied. “I’ve never met anyone I was so willing to trust. Not since … well, my father was the only other man I trusted so completely.”
“Your father?”
“He died in Japan. Many years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It is in the past. And we cannot change the past.” Colette rubbed her fingers together nervously. “Though perhaps we can atone for mistakes we have made. Perhaps.” Octavia was surprised at the candor in her voice. And the bitterness. “I have no country to serve now. Modo is my country. I must prove that I am worthy.”
What kind of statement was that? Was she professing her love for Modo? Or her allegiance? “What do you have to prove to him?”
“Everything,” Colette said. “I asked you once, in Reykjavík, if you had seen his face. His real face. You answered no. Has that changed?”
“It’s none of your business,” Octavia said. Colette’s dark exotic eyes, her prying questions, her grip on Modo—these things were becoming such an aggravation.
“Well, I will make it my business. I was coy with you then. I said it was a matter of confidentiality. But the truth is, I have seen his face. I could not look at him for more than a moment without feeling an absolutely uncontrollable revulsion. He is such a brave man. He is, despite his occupation, guileless. And I rejected him. And it … it marked me.”
Octavia found herself holding her breath. She’d had a similar feeling when she had seen Modo’s real face. It was so different from what she had expected. So twisted. So raw. And, perhaps, not what he deserved. He was such a grand young man that he deserved to be beautiful.
“I too have seen it,” Octavia admitted.
“And did you look away?”
“I did not.” She remembered that night, that moment, in the Quee
nsland rain forest clearly. Every cell, every nerve, every instinct had been telling her to look away. Such ugliness. She’d wanted to touch his face, knowing the pain he’d felt his whole life, but could only put her hand on his shoulder.
Colette grabbed Octavia’s hand and squeezed it. “You are a much stronger woman than me,” she whispered. “You are so very brave. I could not look. I failed him. It is as simple as that. I am not accustomed to failure. I do not accept it.”
“So how do you reverse this failure?”
“I must admit, I do not know. Will he ever accept me as, well, as a friend? Will he accept my loyalty? He is my country. My country. Just being around him. You know what it is like. I envy you.” She paused. “He must love you, you are so beautiful.”
“I—I don’t know.”
They were silent. The horses snorted, and the fiacre creaked as the driver stirred in his seat, perhaps shivering in the cold. He would wonder what they were doing, but they’d been careful to cover their faces when they hired the carriage so that he wouldn’t be able to identify them later. Only Modo had been visible, and he, of course, would soon look completely different.
Did Colette really see him as her country? Did that mean she would fight for him? Octavia didn’t understand her own feelings. In her own way she too had turned from Modo’s face.
“It has been forty minutes,” Colette said, her voice steady now. “I fear that something has gone awry.”
“What do we do? We don’t have an alternate plan.”
“We cannot charge in there. Modo is a brave and clever man. He’ll have to find his own way out. And once he does, we will be here to rescue him.”
14
The Strength of Seven Men
“You’ll open the door to the office and proceed down the hall,” Laroche instructed.
Modo nodded and gave the French agent a friendly smile, one that he hoped would be disarming. He nearly chuckled to himself, as disarming was exactly what he had in mind. Laroche was holding the gun in an easy manner that indicated he was completely comfortable with the weapon. That was dire news. Modo stood slowly, opened the door to the office, and began to walk down the empty hallway.
“Good, good work,” Laroche said, as though encouraging a child. “Now, please stay five paces in front of me. We will go to the end of the hall and turn left.”
Modo did as told, judging the distance of the man behind him by the sound of his footsteps, picturing the gun at his back. Laroche was no fool and had been well trained—he would not come within striking distance. The chance of turning and quickly knocking the gun from his hand was extremely low and would most likely result in several bullet holes in all the wrong places. Modo glanced around for something he could throw.
“Please look straight ahead,” Laroche said calmly. He spoke English without an accent, indicating that he had worked in the field for a number of years. “I assume you are searching for an object to use as a projectile. I should inform you that I won the bureau marksmanship competition seven years running.”
“Recently?” Modo asked. “Or was that in your younger years?”
The man laughed again, a pleasant sound. “Well, it was some time ago, I admit that.”
He was gray-haired, yet young enough that he might have only recently been assigned to a desk. Perhaps that was why Colette hadn’t mentioned him. Or was it that she didn’t have control of her mental faculties? What other major details had she missed?
“Is it true that you’re as strong as ten men?” Laroche asked.
“Only seven men,” Modo answered. “Ten French men, perhaps.”
Laroche laughed. “You mock me, but I know that you are French too.”
“But British by education.” Modo was surprised to hear Mr. Socrates’ pronouncement come out of his own mouth. Maybe there was some truth to the old man’s words. How Tharpa would be shaking his head at him now. Falling into the hands of the enemy. Or, at the very least, suspicious allies.
“Please open the stairwell door and proceed down the stairs.”
The offices they had walked through were deserted and so was the stairwell. That, at least, was in Modo’s favor. He could jump down the stairs and flee. Laroche might get off two shots. Of course, at such close range he wouldn’t miss. Modo decided to walk slowly down the stairs.
“A bit faster, please,” Laroche said. “I’m so looking forward to our conversation. Your disguise is almost impeccable. I am extremely impressed.”
“I’ll make a note of that in my diary.”
They crossed a landing, then continued down more stairs. Light appeared beneath each door they passed; the agency was busy this evening. Soon they were on the main floor. The steps leading down into the basement and the walls around them were made of stone, like a real fortress.
A lone light cast fractured beams across the stairs. In the shadows it might be possible to make a quick attack that would give Modo the extra seconds he needed. He listened, not daring to turn. Before he could decide on the best course, the metal door at the bottom of the stairs scraped open and two burly men stepped through it. They looked up and were just beginning to salute Modo when instead they reached for the pistols at their hips.
“Halt,” Laroche said in French. “This is not as it seems. This man is an impostor. A prisoner.”
“Listen carefully,” Modo said calmly, also in French. “Draw your weapons and shoot Laroche. He has captured me and turned against France. He is a traitor.”
The guards’ hands were frozen on their guns. One moved slightly, making the keys on his belt jangle. “Shoot him! That is an order!” Modo barked.
The guards drew their guns. Laroche fired, his bullet sparking off the stone wall, making the men duck. Modo smashed his way between them and hurtled through the doorway. There were more rows of desks and several hallways. A collection of French spies looked up from their paperwork, mouths gaping, clearly alarmed by the pistol fire. He dashed past them, shouting, “Intruder! Intruder behind me! Bar the door!”
He chose a hallway, sped to the end of it, and turned awkwardly down another. A shot rang out, knocking a painting off the wall. Even in his mad running he was impressed that they had artwork hanging in the bureau. There was an uproar behind him, but he couldn’t make out a word of it, except that Laroche was swearing at such a volume that his voice rang clearly above all the others. Modo flew by a row of occupied cells. Some prisoners were in rags, looking as if they hadn’t seen the sun for years; others were in dapper gray jackets, as if they’d been arrested while dining.
A way out! There had to be a way out! He was beginning to feel like a trapped rat. Get me out of here now!
He took a deep breath. Calm yourself. It was Tharpa’s voice—he was always there in the background. Modo pictured the front of the building. There had been loading doors that led to the underground level. They were on the west side, so he veered to the left, down a narrow hall, and plowed through the door at the end, knocking it off its hinges.
He found himself in a giant storage room. Crates stood along several walls; one lid had been pried off to reveal a collection of guns. Modo recognized them as chassepot rifles, the main armament of the French forces. He could use one to fight his way out, but he’d be surrounded and shot in the space of a few minutes. Stealth was still the best option. He passed another crate jammed with ceramic dolls, of all things. What purpose they served he couldn’t imagine.
At the end of the room was a ramp leading to the loading doors. When he reached the top of the ramp, he discovered that the doors were locked and barred. He put his back to them and strained, swearing and pushing until the bars snapped and the doors flew open. He charged out into the dark shouting, “Intrus! Intrus!” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. His French was failing him.
A siren sounded, screaming from the top of the building, then the barking of dogs; the guards had let loose the hounds. He ran past the nearest guard station and the dogs turned their snouts toward him and l
eapt into action.
Behind him, from the upper floors of the bureau, someone used a voice trumpet to shout, “Fermez les portes! Fermez les portes!”
They were going to close the gates! He was still fifty yards from the exit. He could see the guards swinging the gates closed. He was sweating madly now, his hair disheveled. They’d shoot him before they even recognized him as Bélanger.
“Arretêz-vous!” a guard shouted. “Arrêtez-vous!”
“Je suis Bélanger! Je suis Bélanger!” Modo repeated as he ran full speed down the lane.
But the guard at the front gate raised his rifle and pointed it directly at him, forcing Modo to stop and wait for the hounds that would tear into his flesh at any second.
15
Mad Horses and an Englishwoman
The siren sent a shiver down Octavia’s spine; the barking of dogs doubled her fear. She stared out the fiacre window but could only see the guards running back and forth across the courtyard. “Something has gone dreadfully wrong!” she said.
Colette shoved open the door and shouted, “Allez vers la porte!” The fiacre began to roll down the street toward the gates, but it was clear from the carriage’s slowness that the driver was apprehensive. Colette banged her fist on the ceiling. “Dépêchez-vous!”
The fiacre picked up speed, then slowed again as they neared the gates. Octavia spotted a man running across the courtyard, dogs pursuing him. It was too dark to tell if it was Modo, but who else could it be?
“The driver’s a white-livered muffin face,” she muttered. “I’ll jaw with him.”
She pushed open the door, and without so much as a glance at the cobblestone street below, in fact with a joyous beating of her heart, she grabbed onto the top rail, climbed the side of the carriage, and plopped down next to the driver. “Sacré bleu!” he exclaimed. She would have laughed at the look of shock on his face if she wasn’t in such a desperate hurry.
