by Arthur Slade
“She was Colette Brunet!” Modo shouted. “She served your country well. Her name was Colette Brunet.”
And then Octavia led him away.
24
The Boy with the
Iron Shoulders
A young man named Oppie slept restlessly on a cot in a military tent he shared with several other soldiers. He dreamed of his home far, far away in London.
More than a year earlier he had been inside a giant that walked across London and swung its metal fists at the Parliament buildings. He was one of many children chained to the giant to make it work, and he remembered only blurred images of those events. If he didn’t know better he would’ve said that none of it had happened. A nightmare, a horrible flight of fancy. But he had bolts sticking out from his shoulders that proved differently, and memories of a redheaded witch with a metal hand and an evil white-haired doctor who had poked and prodded and made him drink potions that changed him. When he closed his eyes at night he saw the hideous pair lurking in the darkness, so he rarely slept well.
He had been removed from the broken body of the giant, set on the ground, and given chocolate. He did recall talking to Mr. W, a detective type who’d had a room at the Red Boar, Oppie’s place of employment. Then Oppie had been taken away in a carriage to be poked and prodded and questioned by men in black uniforms and an old, gruff man named Mr. Sockrats, or something like that. And later still, Oppie was poked and prodded by other, friendlier doctors. Within a week they had cut the ends off his bolts, patched him up, and sent him home to his mum.
He enjoyed six weeks of bliss and joy and magic. His mum suddenly didn’t have to work because of something she called “shush money.” So she stayed home and Oppie went to school—actually went to school—the place Mr. W had said he should attend. He’d started to read his first words. And the best part was that his father was growing stronger each day. He’d been yellow with some sickness that had crawled down his throat, but his mother could now buy medicines and pay a doctor. Within a week his dad got up and walked and laughed and rubbed Oppie’s head and said, “My boy, my boy.” And Mum had told Oppie that he had a brother or sister who would be delivered by a stork. A stork, of all things! He didn’t understand exactly where the stork was from, but his mum kept rubbing her tummy.
One night his dad went to sleep. The next morning his mum was shouting for the doctor, but his dad was already cold and yellow and dead. Then Oppie got sick too. His shoulders grew bulkier. His feet and his hands outgrew the rest of his body. Then the rest of his body began to catch up. Sometimes he’d grow an inch in height overnight! And his temper grew too. He wouldn’t remember his tantrums, but would wake up to broken chairs or dishes or pots lying all around him, his mum huddled in a corner like a frightened bird.
The men in black uniforms returned, along with Mr. Sockrats, who told Mum that Oppie was changing because of the potion Britain’s enemies had given him. It was affecting his body and his mind. Making him age. He didn’t understand, but he had to go with the men to a secret fortress. His mum hugged him and said she’d see him again when he was all better.
Then they put him in the back of a carriage, and thus began a journey that would take him away, far, far over the ocean.
25
Valuable Cargo Arrives
Miss Hakkandottir was the first to see the airship Erebos descend from the heavens. She was standing on a rocky plateau looking over the cliffs when she spotted the dark oval in the sky.
She marched to the dock as the Erebos lowered to the ground. A squadron of Guild soldiers had been on guard there all morning, piquing her curiosity. She knew the airship had been on a mission in France, and judging by the torn straps and the trailing smoke, it had returned at full speed. Its armor was frosted, a sign that it had been traveling dangerously high in the atmosphere and catching strong air currents. The outer balloon looked worn.
Soldiers caught the landing ropes and the ship descended gracefully until it was floating only a few feet from the sandy ground. The squadron flanked the airship and the side gates opened. First to step haughtily down the gangplank was Lime, a triumphant light in his eyes, a buffalo coat wrapped around his thin frame. Behind him trudged Typhon. The monster still amazed her. She had watched as Dr. Hyde had brought it back from the dead. She wondered if the doctor would ever do the same to her one day.
She had hoped to see one of the Association’s spies—Mr. Socrates or Modo—all trussed up and stumbling down the gangplank, so she was disappointed when a frightened woman, who kept crossing herself, was led down by soldiers instead. She was short, haggard, several years older than Miss Hakkandottir, her hair protruding wildly from under a torn bonnet. She had the strong-shouldered build of a peasant, of someone who worked with the earth. And so plain! Lime gave Miss Hakkandottir a leering smile, then followed the soldiers and the woman to the Crystal Palace.
What had she just witnessed? Who could be so important? She stood watching until they had entered the palace gates. The woman matched no one in Miss Hakkandottir’s files.
Only an hour later, sitting alone at a table in the mess tent eating rabbit stew, did she put it together. She dropped her spoon with a clatter and immediately went to the doctor’s cave.
She found Dr. Hyde arranging his collection of needles. “I would like to see her,” she said gently.
He shuddered and turned. “Ah, Ingrid, you know that is not possible. She has just arrived. We need her to be in perfect condition for our tests. She must rest.”
“Did the Guild Master expressly forbid me from visiting her?”
Dr. Hyde paused to think that through. Perhaps because his brain was steeped in formulas and calculations, Miss Hakkandottir found him easy to manipulate.
“I would never harm her,” she promised. She put her metal hand on his shoulder. “I am only curious.”
She did have some affection for him, or something resembling affection. He had, after all, constructed her metal hand. She would never want her weak flesh-and-bone hand back again; the metal one was perfect. It struck fear in the hearts of her enemies and it never wore down.
He stroked her metal hand. “Perhaps your hand needs adjusting. Though it did not rust with the altitude and humidity of your airship adventures.”
He was trying to change the subject. He found a small lever in his pocket and used it to adjust her index finger. “Ah.” He tightened it. “Better?”
“Yes, much. Could you one day replace my arms? My legs? My body?”
His eyes widened, magnified by his odd glasses. “If required. I would turn you into a goddess.”
“More of a goddess,” she corrected with a hard laugh. “We would rule the world.”
He laughed too, and she knew that he was picturing them side by side. Perhaps he too would have his own gleaming metal body.
“Please, Cornelius, let me see her.”
“I—I suppose there is no harm in it.” He paused. “She will be extremely valuable to us.”
He led Miss Hakkandottir to a stone door, which he opened with a key from his pocket. The room was one of the many recent additions on the island. She followed him inside. He turned another key and an electric light buzzed to life. A perfectly clear quartz wall cut the chamber in half. On the other side of the wall was the woman, sitting on a stone slab, gazing at the floor. She looked as though she had just awakened, terrified. Hakkandottir stared at her. How tiresome and weak some humans were. But from this woman had come such a powerful child.
“She can hear me clearly?” she asked.
“Yes.” He gestured at holes drilled into the quartz. “But please don’t upset her. I need her to be as relaxed as possible for my tests. Fear and anger may alter her blood chemistry.”
The woman looked up, and Miss Hakkandottir was taken aback by her proud eyes, the way she fixed them on her and did not turn away. There was a bandage on her arm, but there were no bruises. A Bible sat on a stone table. Perhaps the Guild Master had given it to her. To wha
t end, Miss Hakkandottir couldn’t guess.
“So you are the mother of Modo,” Miss Hakkandottir said in French.
The woman shook her head.
“But indeed you are. Lime is an unerring fox and he sniffed you out. You are the mother of a most interesting creature.”
“I have no children.”
“You had one. Of that we are certain.”
“No. I have none. I would not have willingly given birth to that abomination.”
That term made Hakkandottir smile. “Yes, an abomination.
You did give birth to one. And perhaps you will be the birth mother of even more.”
“Please, Ingrid,” Dr. Hyde remonstrated. “We are not to upset her.”
“I am nearly done, my dear,” Miss Hakkandottir said, without moving her gaze from Modo’s mother. She didn’t know exactly why she wanted to see the woman writhe. Was it because Modo had bested her? Modo had battled Fuhr, her friend, and dragged him to his death in the Thames. Modo had been in the submarine Ictíneo when it stabbed her ship from below, sinking the unsinkable Wyvern. And he had turned his horrific face upon her at the Egyptian temple in Queensland and she had been forced to flee. Three times he had defeated her. Defeated the Guild.
Was she just here then to taunt Modo’s mother? She shrugged. Or maybe there was something she could learn about such a powerful adversary. Was the Guild Master using the mother as bait, hoping to lure Modo here?
“I shall tear your son into pieces and feed him to my hound,” Miss Hakkandottir said. The woman met her eyes, then picked up her Bible and began reading aloud.
“We must leave her,” Dr. Hyde said. “Please.”
“I have seen enough. Words will not save you,” she said over her shoulder as Dr. Hyde pulled the door closed behind them.
26
A Better Woman Than I
The return voyage to Canada was not one Octavia would ever want to repeat. They had reported by telegram to Mr. Socrates; within hours they received commands to return home, home now being Montreal, of course. She and Modo sailed first to Liverpool, stopping so tantalizingly close to London. She wanted to flee to the rugged and ragged streets of Seven Dials where she had grown up. She’d be safe in any of those ratholes they called pubs. Even the Clockwork Guild wouldn’t poke their noses in there. Instead, she and Modo booked a second-class cabin on the SS Montreal, playing husband and wife for the third time.
Modo was a dark and quiet stone sitting at the end of his deck chair, or, more often, he could be found in their cabin staring out the porthole with that blasted netting mask covering his face, and his emotions. The bruises and cuts on his face were healing quickly; inside his heart, though, she doubted things were going as well. Octavia did not pry.
Besides, she was not in much of a mood to talk. She had spent less than three days with Colette and had quarreled with her, yet her death was like losing a close friend, a mate. Such a blow. She was an equal. No, Octavia had to admit, she was a better woman than I. Colette could speak several languages, had risen to the top of her ranks despite fellow agents trying to undermine her because she was a woman and half Japanese. Even half mad, she had been formidable.
Colette had been broken by that bull, Typhon, as though she’d been a doll. The sight and sound of that would haunt Octavia. There’d been nothing she could do to prevent it. She’d been crawling from the wreckage of their carriage when Typhon lifted Colette over his head.
“It looks like it’ll be another boring day,” she said, pouring her tea. “But only four more to go before we’re back in Canada.”
She could only imagine how all of this was affecting Modo; he had given her little more than two-word sentences since their departure. She so missed the Modo she’d once known.
“Yes,” Modo answered, “same as the last.”
“What do you suppose Mr. Socrates has in store for us?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“With or without him I’ll find my mother and save her from those …” He shook his head as though he couldn’t find the words to describe the Clockwork Guild.
“Just like that?”
“I’ll find the hiding place of the Guild and I’ll break them.” He was bending his teaspoon in his wrath.
“Modo, the best way to do that is to work with Mr. Socrates.” She was surprised by her own words, and yet she knew they were the truth. “You know it too. After all, you’re on a ship returning to him.”
“It was the only course I could take.” He sighed. “I’m confused, Tavia. I am French. I am English. I was orphaned. I have parents. One is dead and the other doesn’t know me. They abandoned me and yet I must save my mother. And Colette is dead. Dead. Dead. My mind bounces from one dark moment to another. It’s all too much.”
“Nothing is too much for you, Modo.”
He looked up at her. Was this another gibe? But she returned his gaze.
“Why are you being so kind?” he asked.
“I cared for Colette too.”
“You did?”
“She was a beautiful, remarkable young woman. Truly heroic. I’ve come to think of her as a sister.”
“A sister?”
“Yes. She was an incredibly annoying and strong-willed she-devil. I would’ve been honored to call her sister.”
“She was strong. I am heartsick,” he admitted. He shook his head and smiled, looking out at the sea. “She would be laughing now if she could hear us.”
“We’ll go back to Montreal, Modo. You never know what ol’ Mr. S will have up his sleeve.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right,” she said. What was she doing? She was thankful to Mr. Socrates for taking her from a life of pick-pocketing, but he often got on her nerves and always put the needs of Britain before the needs of his spies. Now she was actually talking him up to Modo. To Modo! This was how bad things had become. “And if he doesn’t have a plan for us, Modo, one that involves rescuing your mother, I’ll go with you. If she is that important to you, then she is that important to me. We’ll make certain Colette did not sacrifice her life for nothing. Come hell or high water, together we’ll find your mother.”
He stared at her for a long time. He was so hard to read with that mask on, but she thought she saw disbelief in his eyes. Or bewilderment.
“We will,” she added. “I swear this to you.”
He nodded. “Then the Clockwork Guild and whoever else stands in our way had better be ready to run.”
27
Stepping Out of the Trenches
Mr. Socrates had been part of the great siege of Sevastopol during the Crimean War. He remembered the backbreaking labor of digging trenches on one side of the Russian port city while their comrades, the French, dug trenches on the opposite side. Summer passed; fall, winter, spring. Then another summer, fall, and winter. The harsh weather and the long months had been horrible for morale. And then, when they felt Sevastopol had been truly weakened by shelling and starvation, they rose up from their trenches and charged the city.
Now it was time to rise again. Hiding in Montreal had been necessary, but it was time to act, to step out of the trench he had dug around himself and charge into the unknown.
He was beginning to feel at home in Montreal: the food, the newness of the buildings, the energy of a colony. He could comfortably spend his last years here, away from the hurly-burly of London. But being comfortable was wrong. He had to live with the heart of a soldier, moving from camp to camp, and be ready to charge the enemy at a moment’s notice.
Above all, it was time to follow his instinct.
And so he sent several telegrams, packed a kit bag and luggage, and had Tharpa order a carriage to the docks. He left Mrs. Finchley to keep Montreal House in good order. “Guard it with your life,” he said. “You’re the last bastion of our part of the Association.”
She nodded and smiled sardonically. “I shall fight the cobwebs and the
mice until my final breath.” They looked at each other, smiling grimly. How many years had he known her? Twenty? Then she said, almost defiantly, “You give Modo and Octavia my love.”
“I most certainly will not,” he said. “They are agents, not our children. Your children.”
Her smile was curious. “They belong to us, either way. And you know that.”
He stomped away from her. Women! He could not fathom the pathways of their minds. A minute later he and Tharpa were in their carriage, rolling toward the docks.
He took the wireless telegraph and folders of reports with him. He had received updates from Cook and Footman, and the latest was the most exciting: a telegram saying that they’d discovered a mysterious hidden shipyard on the coast of China. It flew no flags of any country and most of the workers were European. It was most likely a Clockwork Guild shipyard.
But how to deliver the Guild a hammer blow? He did have one ace in his deck, an experiment that, from all reports, was coming to fruition. It was waiting on Vancouver Island on a patch of land deeded to the Association by a retired general. It had been part of Mr. Socrates’ long plan.
Intuition told him he was making the right decision. This new weapon—these new weapons—would be a saber through the heart of the Guild.
He thought again of the siege of Sevastopol. Of how he and his regiment had charged those walls under harrowing cannon and rifle fire. It had been a failure on the British side, he remembered with a bitter laugh, but the French broke through on the other side, and by nightfall they were all in the quarters of a dead Russian general, drinking his vodka.
28
Westward Ho!
Modo was so impatient to get his feet on land that he stood by the gangplank with their luggage long before they had docked in Montreal, next to several tall-masted ships. Octavia stood beside him, using her umbrella as shade from the sun. It was colder here in Canada: the early October wind chilled Modo. Or was he shivering with nervousness? He had assumed the Doctor persona again. The moment the sailors lowered the gangplank Modo scurried down it. He and Octavia were the first to have their papers stamped at Customs House. He strode up a ramp to the street.
