by Arthur Slade
“You are dismissed, Typhon,” Dr. Hyde said.
He walked out of the cave and along the wet, stony ground. There were always soldiers around, and sometimes that woman with the red hair. And he had once stood before someone called the Guild Master. A tiny man with a powerful voice. He could not find any older memories of such people inside his head. He did have memories, though, of a wife with a reedy voice. Had he been married? Had he children?
Sometimes he would see Lime. The man with the metal teeth had barked at him and treated him like a dog. He would snuff him out for that. He imagined the event, the glee he would feel. He could do it now, but the hounds and the soldiers would tear him apart. It would not be wise to kill Lime at this juncture. He would wait.
Besides, Typhon was beginning to understand how small Lime really was. He had not built a palace on this island. He had not given the orders that created Typhon.
He walked where the seagulls flew along the edge of the island. He watched other, little birds flit through the air. So pretty. He sat under a palm tree and held out his hand.
He held it perfectly still for three hours, breath shallow and quiet. Finally a bird with pretty yellow wings landed on it. He watched the bird. It watched him. He couldn’t think of the name of the bird. He should know that.
Then, with a quick squeeze, he crushed it.
“Canary,” he said.
30
An Old but Young Friend
Though the trip across the American West was one beautiful landscape after another—each could be a giant painting like those in the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square—Modo wished the train would chug faster. He’d shovel the coal himself if it’d help. Their travels took them from Wisconsin to Minnesota and on. Sometimes the station was the only sign of civilization. This was a country that had survived a massive and horrible civil war; he’d read about tragic battles, desperate charges, countercharges, and hand-to-hand combat. This was also the land of adventure, according to the penny dreadfuls; six-gun shooters, sheriffs, and gangs of unruly cattle thieves. And savage Indians too.
No, savage was the wrong word. He remembered the Rain People of Australia. In the short time he’d spent with them, they’d been far from savage. He’d long since decided it was best to judge who was savage by their actions.
Every second stop was a fort: outposts surrounded by nothingness as far as he could tell. There was little to do but wander from car to car. Read. Wait. Mr. Socrates had predicted that it would take four nights and four days. Impossible to imagine crossing such a large continent in such a short time, but he knew an airship would cross it at twice the speed.
The close quarters of the train made it particularly hard to hide his deformity, and only by acting the invalid were they allowed to keep his bed down and the curtains closed. Invalid? He could outwrestle any man on the train, except perhaps Tharpa. But being an invalid gave him time to read.
When he did change into the Doctor, he would dress and stroll up and down the aisle or play chess against Tharpa.
“You’ve tramped this train from beginning to end at least a hundred times,” Octavia said. They were in the observation car watching the green hills of Montana pass by.
“I have to do something. I’m clamped in, trapped, and angry.”
“Anything else? A sore toe, perhaps?” She clapped his shoulder. “Ah, Modo, we are all trapped. Though Mr. Socrates seems to have a light in his eyes. He’s enjoying this.”
“The man has no plan.”
“Then no one can predict his actions.”
Modo shook his head. “You sound like him. I had no plan when we attacked Lime’s wagon and Colette died.”
“Do not carry her death on your shoulders, Modo. All three of us accepted the risks, and we came up with the best plan possible in such a short time. You didn’t ask her to stand toe to toe with that monster. She chose to.”
“You’re right. But I’d feel better if our master was plotting everything out carefully.”
“He hasn’t led us astray before. Perhaps we’re better off without a plan this time. And at least we’re on the move. We could be stifled in Montreal House reading Plato to each other.”
“Now, don’t you poke fun at Plato.” He put his hand against the window. “I—I keep wishing I had said something more to my father. I don’t even know if he heard me. Who was he, Tavia?”
“Maybe when we have more time you could … we could return to Montreuil and ask some questions.”
She wanted to go there with him! He couldn’t help smiling.
“I have to confess something to you, Modo,” she said.
“You do?”
“I once said I didn’t care about my parents. Didn’t want to meet them. It’s a lie. I … I’d like to set eyes on them once. To see what they look like. I know it sounds odd, but I now envy you that you saw your father. My dad was likely strung up by the hangman or is sleeping in Davy Jones’s locker.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, Tavia. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t be sorry. Once I got over the first glance I’d tear a strip off ’em. After all, how dare those louts abandon me?”
“I feel the same way,” Modo said, “but it’s harder to be angry now that I’ve seen them.”
“Well, we’ll rescue your mother. And you can jabber with her till your tongue falls out.”
“It seems impossible,” Modo said. “There are just four of us. Against the Clockwork Guild. What are we thinking?”
“Like I said before, perhaps Mr. Socrates has a trick up his sleeve, or hidden in his walking stick.”
“I sure hope he does.” They took in the view for a while, until Modo said, “I just don’t understand exactly who I am. What country I belong to.”
“You’re Modo,” Octavia said, as though it explained everything. “We don’t belong to countries, Modo. We belong to friends.”
“I belong to you?” he asked.
“Well … yes, of course. You’re my mate.” She gave him a friendly punch in the arm. “And you’re such a bore when you’re a sourpuss. Don’t trouble yourself about what’ll happen. I live in the moment.”
“That’s one of your many wonderful traits.”
“It’s the only way, Modo. I told you about Garret once, didn’t I? My mate who was hanged for stealing a watch. He’s the one who taught me to live by the day, the hour, the moment.” She paused. “It’s best not to think about him. Gets me teared up.”
The vast mountains of Montana and Idaho—the Rockies—were stunning. And someone had cut a path through all that rock so this band of steel could wind through the mountains. How much dynamite had been used? The whistle blew as they passed a town called Hellgate.
“They do have particularly clever names for their towns,” Octavia said.
The final stop of the train was a small station near the coast. Modo leapt into the fresh air, clutching his and Octavia’s luggage. The four agents loaded everything into a canvas-covered wagon with a driver who was, to Modo’s great disappointment, wearing a conductor’s cap. He’d expected a cowboy hat. They began rolling toward Seattle. He was glad for the canvas as clouds scudded over them, thunder sounded, and just like that, it began to pour. The horses snorted and struggled, kicking up mud as they dragged them down sludgy First Avenue past square wooden buildings that looked as though a good wind would knock them over. Every second building was a saloon.
“This really is the wild west,” Octavia said. She had opened her umbrella and was hiding underneath it since water was soaking through the canvas. “They don’t even have cobblestone streets.” They slogged their way to the port and, after Mr. Socrates had paid for tickets, loaded their soaked selves onto a stern-wheel steamboat named Alexandra. It was not the largest Modo had ever seen, but it fit thirty passengers comfortably and chugged across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to Victoria. How many cities, rivers, lakes, and mountains had been named after the Queen? They passed an island and docked near what looked to be gov
ernment buildings, small by comparison to the Parliament buildings of London, but still impressive.
“This is the farthest edge of the British Empire in North America,” Mr. Socrates explained after they’d debarked the paddleboat.
The city’s newness and size reminded Modo of Sydney. The familiar buildings and bridges were British in style. Civilization! He nearly sighed. Within minutes Mr. Socrates had summoned a small black carriage. The ride took them through the streets and under a vined archway with the sign “God Save the Queen.” They passed the Bank of British Columbia; beside it was the Victoria Boot and Shoe Manufactory.
“It’s all so very quaint,” Octavia said. “It’s like they’ve made a tiny copy of everything in England. Which reminds me, my boots need mending.”
“There’s no time,” Mr. Socrates said. “We’re less than an hour from our destination.”
Soon they were pulling up to a military establishment. “Esquimalt, the headquarters of the British Pacific Fleet,” Mr. Socrates said. Seeing the ships and marines, Modo hoped his master had formed a plan as they were traveling. A marine opened the carriage door and Mr. Socrates produced papers from his pocket. The marine squinted at the passengers, his eyes on Octavia so long that Modo felt like giving him a bop on the nose. The marine nodded and said, gruffly, “Your transportation will be here soon enough.” He motioned to the driver. “The civilian is not allowed any farther.”
They got out and pulled their luggage down. An uncovered wagon, the box stained with some black substance—blood?—pulled up. They threw their luggage on and climbed into their seats. Their driver was another marine. With a flick of the reins the horses began to trot down the main road of the naval base.
“Ah, they added more docks,” Mr. Socrates said. “Good. Good.”
There were docks, of course, and sailors standing outside wooden barracks. “I was invalided here during the Crimean escapade.” Mr. Socrates looked at the barracks. “Fir trees and coal make this a valuable area. And it’s within easy striking distance of the United States, if need be.”
“Are we going to war with them?” Octavia said. “Did they dump our tea in the sea again! Outrageous.”
“One must prepare for all possible outcomes,” Mr. Socrates said. “You can trust an individual, but never trust the country.”
“And does that include England?” Modo asked.
“Especially not England,” he replied with a smile. “Empires are not created by accident.”
The HMS Shah—an iron-hulled, wooden-sheathed frigate—waited in the dock, metal glistening in the dull sunlight. Three masts towered above the deck and two steam funnels puffed smoke. The warship looked brand-new. It was a sword, Modo decided, sharp and powerful. Meant to cut through the ocean and the ships of the enemy.
They were soon past the docks and encountering fewer buildings, though there were massive stores of coal. Several men were shooting at a practice target and charging straw dummies. Ah, the life of a marine, Modo thought. It would be so simple.
They arrived at a guard post and were stopped by men in black uniforms. Modo recognized the uniform—members of Mr. Socrates’ Permanent Association. The exact position of these soldiers in the hierarchy of the British army had never been made clear to Modo. It was likely that they weren’t accounted for on any records.
Their driver climbed down, saluted, then began walking back to the naval base. “It’s good to see you again, sir,” an Association soldier said. “I’ll take you the rest of the way.” He climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Where are we going?” Modo asked Octavia.
“The outback, I guess,” she said. “Mr. Socrates really is unpredictable. Or he’s lost his faculties.”
“I haven’t lost my hearing, Octavia,” Mr. Socrates said.
They drove through two more checkpoints. Modo was intrigued: what secret were they about to see that needed three separate security checks? Even the marines weren’t allowed beyond the gate. They entered a camp around which stood a ten-foot-tall “thorny” fence. A secret within a secret on a distant military base.
They passed through a copse of pine trees that opened up into a large clearing. Before them stood at least twenty white tents circling a tall pole flying a British flag. The wagon lurched to a stop before the largest tent. “First we dine,” Mr. Socrates said.
“I can only imagine what we’ll be dining on,” Octavia whispered.
Mr. Socrates led them into a mess tent with wooden tables set with metal plates. It stank of smoke and burnt food. “Sit, sit,” Mr. Socrates commanded, and as they did, two cooks scooped piles of an unrecognizable goulash onto their plates.
“What’s this?” Octavia asked.
A grizzled cook waved his spoon at her. “Food. Plain and simple.”
Plain and gray was more like it, glued together by a gravy dotted with globules of fat. Modo poked at what he believed were white potatoes. He began to eat. The gruel tasted peppery, with the slightest hint of lime. He couldn’t identify the stringy meat he was chewing on. Venison? Beef?
“It has everything you need in it,” Mr. Socrates said.
“Oh. Is this pleasant loblolly your recipe?” Octavia asked. Even Tharpa was looking at it twice.
“No. I am good at making tea, but little else in the kitchen. I approved it. It’s made our soldiers strong.”
Another experiment? Modo wondered. He finished the food on his plate.
“Ah, you were all hungry,” Mr. Socrates said, looking satisfied. “I’m glad you enjoyed that; you’ll be getting your fill of it here. Now come along. I have a squadron of soldiers I’d like you to meet.”
He knew his way around the camp. He led them past a series of empty tents, each with five cots.
“So where are we?” Modo asked.
“Welcome to Camp Cobra, a base for the Permanent Association,” Mr. Socrates replied. “This is where we train and plan and, when the time is right, strike.”
Beyond the tents was a field littered with straw dummies that had been torn in half. It looked like a battlefield. “But who are you training? Association soldiers?” said Octavia.
Mr. Socrates’s eyes twinkled. “Your question will be answered momentarily. Listen.”
As if on cue, a low rumble emanated from the north. At first Modo thought it was thunder, but the ground began to shake under his feet like an earthquake. Mr. Socrates gave the slightest hint of a smile. He was enjoying this! The rumbling grew to a pounding, and Modo’s heart pounded in response. Then came a deep, monstrous roaring. He met Octavia’s eyes; she looked a little nervous. Tharpa was as calm as ever, and it occurred to Modo that he’d been here before.
The roaring was closer. Was it bison? He’d read about how large they were. He fully expected to see a herd stampede over the rise and trample them.
To Modo’s great shock a giant charged over the rise, followed by another and another—twelve-foot-tall metal creatures with massive, gleaming helmeted heads, and arms and legs that hissed. A dozen pounded along in formation, holding what looked to be multi-chambered elephant guns. The armor on their chests was dented yet glittering. They yelled in unison and Modo nearly wet his britches.
Right behind them was an Association soldier, holding a speaking trumpet. He gave a command and the giants split into two groups, drew massive wooden clubs from their backs and began fighting each other.
Octavia’s mouth was hanging open. Mr. Socrates grinned ear to ear, obviously pleased and proud. “These men are the most elite fighting unit in all the world.”
“There are men inside all that metal?” Modo asked.
“Of course,” Mr. Socrates answered. “Very large men standing on steam-powered legs and strapped and bolted into their armored torso. See how smoothly they move?”
The dragoons continued to battle, arms hissing with steam. After several minutes of exchanging blows they were given a sharp order and they retreated back into formation. They stood motionless as the Association soldier shout
ed at the top of his lungs about their laziness.
When the diatribe was over, Mr. Socrates commanded, “Sergeant Beatty, send me Trooper Entwistle!”
The sergeant barked another order and one of the giants turned, saluted with a huge metal hand, and lumbered across the field.
“You are about to get a good, close look at a secret weapon about which neither the prime minister nor the Queen is aware,” Mr. Socrates said. “A member of our Seventh Dragoons regiment, or the Lucky Sevens, as we call them.”
Modo remembered that dragoons were part of the cavalry, trained in lance and rifle warfare. These men were riding metal machines instead of horses. When the giant stopped a few feet from them, Modo strained his neck to look up at its face. Behind the slit in the visor were two glowing eyes.
“Remove your helmet,” Mr. Socrates commanded.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Socrates,” the man replied. He unlocked the golden helmet, which was adorned with a small image of the crown and topped with a horsehair plume. Modo had expected to see some grizzled veteran inside, but the soldier was young. His eyes were confident; his face tanned by hours of outdoor training. There was a familiar cut to his jaw. And he was freckled.
Recognition struck Modo. He hadn’t seen this face for over a year. He had once peered at it through a keyhole in a London inn. The face had been much younger then.
“Oppie,” Modo said incredulously, “is that really you?”
31
Bolts of Anger
The boy was much larger and older, and scarred, but Modo knew him. Oppie had been ten years old the last time Modo had seen him, just a year and a half ago. Yet today he looked sixteen, if not twenty. By what little Modo could see of his body in all that metal, he guessed Oppie was at least six feet tall.
“Do I know you, sir?” the dragoon asked. Such politeness seemed odd coming out of something so large and powerful.
