by Arthur Slade
Then he took another look at Modo and realized: he was no longer a boy. How old would he be now? He’d discovered Modo fourteen years ago as a toddler. He would be fifteen or sixteen. A young man. Why hadn’t he given Modo a birthday? He could have picked a date out of the air. You sentimental old fool, he chastised himself. What does Modo need with a birthday? He’d been protecting him far too much. Modo had been ready to go on several missions in the past few months, but Mr. Socrates had held him back. He’d almost lost him last time.
A thought suddenly occurred to him. Could it be that he was really on this voyage to be Modo’s protector? The pain that shot through his heart gave him his answer.
No, he thought staring down into the water. He must not attach himself to his subordinates. He’d learned that as an officer in Crimea. Those rules applied here, too. Britannia couldn’t be protected by bleeding hearts and soft hands.
“Enough sightseeing,” Mr. Socrates said. “Go prepare. We’ll be debarking soon.”
“Yes, Father,” Modo said, and immediately turned on his heel and began walking down the deck. Mr. Socrates watched him go. It had been such a long time since he’d rescued the boy from the Gypsy wagon. It already seemed a lifetime ago.
The Rag and Famish, and Hades Acres
Modo stood outside his cabin next to his luggage and watched as the RMS Rome docked at Cockatoo Island. The island’s quaint name was amusing, and a sign that he was no longer in London.
“It used to be a prison island,” a cabin boy said as he tagged Modo’s luggage. Parker. That was the boy’s last name. “The docks were built by convicts. The prisoners have all been moved to some other jail, so don’t you worry yourself about them dangerous types, sir. Only their bones and restless spirits have been left behind.”
Modo tipped him, and soon after that, the porters arrived to carry away his luggage. He was glad to see the last of his cabin. It had been comfortable enough, but he was tired of feeling like a chicken in a coop.
The rest of his party came out of their cabins and Mr. Socrates guided them down the gangplank. Modo was taken by Octavia’s rather fetching green hat and green crinolined dress. Mrs. Finchley, too, had dressed up for the city.
They had docked next to a British war steamer, Rosario, and as they walked along the boardwalk Modo studied it, impressed by its size and the guns aimed from its decks. He wondered what the sailors’ lives would be like, with many of their years spent at sea. He’d stick with being a secret agent. He preferred solid ground under his feet.
While Tharpa monitored their luggage and equipment being unloaded, Mr. Socrates led the rest of them to a ferry. It transported them over calm waters busy with smaller steamers and yachts. What would the streets of Sydney be like? Modo wondered. Sheep and kangaroos stampeding around? They disembarked on the north shore docks and climbed into one of the waiting carriages. Modo sat beside Mr. Socrates, gawking out the window as they rolled along the pebbly streets of North Sydney. None of the buildings were as tall or as old as anything in London. How new everything looked, though very dusty. Maybe Sydney was more like New York before the Americans put up so many high buildings.
“Civilization at last,” Mrs. Finchley said. “One more night on a boat and I would have thrown myself to the sharks.”
“Our hearts would break with you gone,” Octavia said. “And with whom would I be lucky enough to play cards?”
“Aren’t you the kindest!” Mrs. Finchley patted Octavia’s shoulder.
Modo wished he’d thought of a compliment for Mrs. Finchley. She and Octavia were getting along famously.
The carriage arrived at the front doors of the Rag and Famish Hotel and everyone stepped out. Modo gave the building the once-over: an oversized cottage with maybe ten rooms, low trees growing behind it. Two unshaved sailors stumbled out of the front doors, obviously drunk even at midday. They paused to give both Octavia and Mrs. Finchley red-eyed stares, then staggered down the slate sidewalk.
There were only ground-floor rooms, Modo noted. If necessary he could climb in and out of his room easily, but so could anyone else.
In the lobby were travelers from several nations: Indians, Englishmen, and four French soldiers. Out of habit Modo scanned the room for an exit at the rear and gauged the windows as being large enough to jump through. They approached the main desk, which was also the bar.
“Are we really staying here, sir?” Mrs. Finchley asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Finchley. I know it’s below your standards, but you’ll endure. The owner, Mr. Bullivant, is an old friend. Clever of him to name his establishment after Ensign Rag and Captain Famish, isn’t it?”
“Who were they, Father?” Modo asked.
“I’m surprised that you ask. They were imaginary characters that some artist invented; you seem to have an addiction to all that literary nonsense. The Rag is the flag, and Famish, well, that’s what happens to all the ensigns on the sea. Bullivant doesn’t think back fondly on his years in the navy.”
Mr. Socrates handed cash to the innkeeper and in return received three keys. He gave one to Modo. “I do hope you get your land legs back soon, son.”
Modo did feel wobbly: keeping up the Doctor face was exhausting him. He’d been too excited as they approached Sydney and had changed his body into this shape far too early.
“Steady as a rock, Father,” Modo said.
After freshening up in their rooms, the four met in the pub and dined on boiled hen and potato. As they were finishing, Tharpa arrived and nodded to Mr. Socrates; a message had been received.
Mr. Socrates stood and raised his goblet of red wine. “A toast to the colonies!”
Modo sipped his tea as Mr. Socrates continued. “I’ve been in London far too long. One forgets the young energy of the colonies. It invigorates me.”
“You’ll need a lot of invigorating,” Octavia said.
“Ah, Octavia, would you be referring to my age? Well, let me say, I feel young enough that we should all go for a jaunt.”
He led them out of the hotel to a carriage. The driver was a flat-nosed man in a tan coat.
Modo climbed up to the top bench and sat beside Tharpa, while Mr. Socrates and the women sat inside. “Where are we going?” Modo asked.
“Sahib is enjoying keeping this a secret.”
Tharpa signaled to the driver for them to proceed and they rumbled north through the streets until the houses grew sparse. Soon they were in the hills, farms on either side. But these farms were nothing like any Modo had seen from the train in England. They were vast tracts, with hundreds, perhaps thousands of sheep wandering across them. The road became a line of dust between the trees and hills. Modo could hear Mrs. Finchley complain from below.
A half hour later they turned in to a dusty lane, passing a sign that said HADES ACRES. Someone had a sense of humor. They stopped near a brick farmhouse, and Modo followed Tharpa off the carriage, hopping the last few rungs of the ladder onto the ground. They were greeted by three tall, grim men in dusty leather greatcoats and tan slouch hats, each carrying a rifle. Their boots looked like something from the American West. They had no insignia, so Modo surmised they were militia. Their faces were stony, all business, when Mr. Socrates stepped out, but as the women emerged, the men puffed out their chests a little and smiles appeared.
One, a man in his midforties, stepped up and shook Mr. Socrates’ hand.
“Welcome back, sir,” the man said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“Likewise, Clow. We haven’t aged a day in twenty years. Is everything in order?”
“Your materials have arrived safely and are being unpacked as we speak. And she is here.”
The way he emphasized she caught Modo’s attention. He’d almost spat the word. But Mr. Socrates didn’t react in any perceptible way. “Good. Good.” He turned to the group. “Come along, you laggards, your mounts await.”
Mounts? Would they be climbing into saddles? He’d never ridden and didn’t relish having to learn ho
w in front of all these men. And Octavia.
Soon he’d have to change his shape; he could already feel his face drooping. Fool! He’d forgotten to bring his mask. He calculated how long it had been since they disembarked. He wouldn’t have much more than half an hour before his body began to revert.
He’d intended to walk with Octavia, but already one of the men was beside her, so Modo stayed a few steps behind. She laughed at something the man said, and Modo rolled his eyes.
They carried on to the long, one-story brick house that looked as though it had been painted white about a hundred years earlier. Behind it was a large wooden shed and an open area where several men were unloading Mr. Socrates’ crates. Two of them used a pry bar on the lids.
A lithe, big-shouldered woman with short dark hair, dark skin, and a tan greatcoat stood in the middle of all the action. “Not there, but over there!” she shouted.
The men cringed. Modo could tell that they weren’t pleased to be taking orders from her.
As Mr. Socrates approached, she turned to face him. Modo had to work hard to disguise his shock at her face: it was attractive, but her lips were tattooed in a dark blue, and swirling blue lines curled along her lower lip to her chin. Why would she permanently mark her face like that?
“Ah, boss, you’ve arrived,” she said. She was perhaps forty years old. “Good, you can tell these men how to unpack your precious swag. They don’t like taking orders from a dingo.”
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, too, Elizabeth,” Mr. Socrates said.
“It’s Lizzie and you know it; you’re only trying to get my goat.” She turned and snapped, “You’d better watch that!” A man holding a wooden box jumped back and glowered at her. “There’s an altimeter in there. I bet you don’t even know what that is, you worm. You break it and I’ll break you.”
“I like this woman,” Octavia whispered to Modo. She was gazing with open admiration at Lizzie.
Modo, however, was a little taken aback and couldn’t decide what he thought of Lizzie. And Mrs. Finchley couldn’t hide her horror.
“Leave the men to their work,” Mr. Socrates said, gesturing for the woman to walk with him back to the group. “I would like to introduce Elizabeth Tompsitt, or Lizzie, as she prefers.”
Lizzie grabbed Modo’s hand and squeezed so tightly that he thought his fingers would break. Her palms were rough with calluses. “I’m …” He looked at Mr. Socrates for guidance.
“You’re Modo, today,” he said with a laugh. “Forget your life as Anthony Reid.”
“I’m M-Modo,” he said. Lizzie let go of his hand and he discreetly rubbed out the pain. He wished he could be Anthony Reid. He would miss calling Mr. Socrates Father.
Lizzie clapped Tharpa on the back—“Tharpa, you duffer-dealing digger, it’s good to set eyes on you again”—and without missing a beat, she bowed to Octavia and Mrs. Finchley. “I can only imagine what you dainty ones think of me.”
Mrs. Finchley turned red, but Octavia spat out, “I’m not dainty! I’m Octavia!”
“Yes, well,” Mr. Socrates said. “I know you’ve all been wondering why we’re here and what these crates contain.” He pointed at what looked like a long red sheet that had been laid on the ground and folded several times. “All of these parts together will become an aeronautic balloon. Steam powered, of course; technically that makes it an airship.” He paused. “And our mutual friend Lizzie will be our pilot.”
A Shortcut Through the Sky
As they reached the ranch house, Modo felt his lower lip sag. The hunch on his back was slowly rising and that made his stomach tighten. He couldn’t stop it. He pulled on Tharpa’s shoulder and signaled him to follow. The two went around the corner of the house as the others walked inside.
“I am,” Modo whispered, “losing my shape. And I forgot my mask.”
“Ah, young sahib. Unfortunate.”
“I don’t have any way of covering my face.”
“There are only friends inside. You don’t have to fear displaying your appearance to them.”
“I don’t want Octavia to see me this way,” Modo said, embarrassed that he was forced to confess it.
Tharpa nodded and placed his hand on Modo’s shoulder for a moment before answering, “Then we will solve this.” He reached up and unraveled his turban, revealing shoulder-length dark hair streaked with gray. He carefully wrapped the cloth around Modo’s face so that only his eyes were showing. “Undo the collar buttons on your shirt, but keep your coat on. That will hide your shape.”
“But are you allowed to do this?” Even though they had shared a cabin, Modo had never seen Tharpa without his turban. “I mean, isn’t your turban a religious symbol?”
“I am among friends. And if it is in aid of a friend, then I am allowed to remove it.” He paused. “But be warned, I am told that Englishwomen go mad over men with long hair.”
They enjoyed a laugh together, then went into the ranch house. Mr. Socrates, Mrs. Finchley, and Octavia were seated at a rough-hewn wooden table. Mr. Socrates looked askance at Modo and Tharpa but made no comment. Octavia stared at Modo’s mummified head, then even longer at Tharpa’s hair. Perhaps Tharpa hadn’t been joking about Englishwomen.
Modo carefully brushed the dirt off one of the stools, which got a derisive chuckle out of Octavia.
“Always neat, aren’t you?” she whispered.
Modo sat down and crossed his arms.
“So you’ve decided to join us,” Mr. Socrates chided. He unrolled a colorful map of Australia across the table. “We’re going to fly to the Queensland rain forest.” He pointed at the northeast part of the country. “By ship we’d need six days of sailing along the coast, but we’ll take a shortcut through the sky. At twenty-five knots per hour, more if the wind is in our favor, we’ll be there within three days. Why, we’ll even have time to stop in Brisbane for pineapple, if we so desire. I have a few notes about the geography of the area from my friend John Atherton, a cattleman and an explorer. It will be the easiest crossing of the Australian jungle in history. We shall have tea and cakes three times a day, far above the earth.”
“It sounds marvelous!” Octavia exclaimed. She clapped Modo on the shoulder. “Imagine that, Modo, we’ll be soaring like eagles.”
He swallowed. “Yes, imagine that.”
The idea of being above the earth had always appealed to him, so long as he was holding on to a building. But now they wouldn’t be attached to anything at all.
“The Royal Geographical Society would, if they learned of it, be quite envious of our flight,” Mr. Socrates said. “This trip across the continent would take explorers on foot or horseback months.”
“How will we find the temple?” Octavia asked.
“My hope is that we’ll spot it from the air, though I realize that’s unlikely. The rain forest is particularly dense. Assuming the map Fred Land provided to us is accurate, we should be able to tether the ship to a palm tree and climb down near the temple. If we’re lucky we’ll only have to search on foot for a few hours. Any more questions?”
“I hope you don’t expect me to ride in that contraption,” Mrs. Finchley huffed, her arms crossed.
“No, my dear Mrs. Finchley,” Mrs. Socrates answered. “You shall remain in Sydney for the next fortnight or so, longer if necessary. I’ve already paid for a room at the Occidental Hotel, which you’ll find much more to your liking. I’ve also taken the liberty of purchasing tickets for you to the Theatre Royal. For a colony they do have rather good shows, though I don’t recommend any of the comedies. A little too common, if you get my meaning.”
“You mean belches and farts,” Octavia said.
“How pleasant, Octavia,” Mr. Socrates said. “Mrs. Finchley, please make a note to stamp the last vestiges of the cockney attitude out of Octavia upon our return voyage.” He wasn’t smiling. “Well, if there are no further questions, it’s time to see how they’re progressing with our airship.”
They followed him outside, whe
re Lizzie was still ordering the men around as they pulled ropes and fit together various mechanical pieces. Modo was glad to see that the car of the airship was as long as a large rowboat and made of thick wicker. Three men were placing an engine in the aft section of the car.
“We have the Clockwork Guild to thank for this,” Mr. Socrates said.
“How so?” Modo asked.
“Twice they’ve used balloons or dirigibles, once when they attacked the Houses of Parliament and again on the Wyvern. It’s important to learn from your enemies. It got me thinking about the possibilities of air travel, so I sought the advice of several inventive military scientists, and with a little of my own tweaking, we’ve designed this ship.”
“I’ve done some reading, Mr. Socrates, about the Montgolfier brothers and their balloons,” Modo said, hoping to impress his master. “Which gas will you use?”
“Hydrogen, of course. Yes, it’s extremely flammable, but I can’t make helium out of thin air.”
“But how will we ascend and descend?” Modo asked.
“Ah, you have studied up!” Mr. Socrates pointed at the red balloon. “I used your descriptions of the Ictíneo as inspiration. As you’ll no doubt remember, the submarine ship had two hulls to prevent sea pressure from crushing it. So there will be a balloon inside a balloon. When we need to descend we allow gas to escape from the outside balloon. When we decide to climb to the heavens, we fill the outside balloon again.”
“So you let out the gas to go down,” Octavia said. “That sounds rather … flatulent.”
“I won’t even dignify that with a response, Octavia. It’s the cutting edge of aeronautic science. With a steam-powered engine and enough compressed coal, we’ll be able to travel to our destination and back without resupplying.”
He pointed at the framework the men were now assembling, which Modo assumed would house the balloons. “I’ve dubbed it the Prince Albert, after the Queen’s departed spouse. If she actually knew about us and our Association, she would be honored, I’m sure.
