by Arthur Slade
Mr. Socrates alternated between reading his dials and staring through his spyglass, while Tharpa and Octavia held the carbines, scanning the sky. The green rain forest below looked deceptively soft.
After several minutes of full speed, the wind pulling at Modo’s hood and the ground growing farther and farther away, Mr. Socrates lowered his spyglass. “Octavia,” he shouted, “make some tea, please.”
“Tea?” she replied, dumbfounded. “Now?”
“Yes, Octavia. We seem to have lost our guests, or they have fled at the sight of us. So, tea it is. Now, dear girl. Now.”
She leaned her Winchester against the railing and dropped the teapot over the steam vent. “High-society madness!” she grumbled.
“It’ll calm our nerves,” Modo whispered.
The hissing of the kettle eventually became a whistle. Modo shivered. It was getting colder the higher they ascended, so tea would be nice.
He heard a reverberating rumble and wondered if the Prince Albert’s engine was slowing down. He shoveled in more coal. The engine was running as quickly and loudly as it ever had. What was that noise?
“Do you hear that?” he asked Octavia.
“Hear what?” She lifted the pot from the steam vent and it stopped whistling.
A low bass grumble could be heard, louder than their own engine.
“Shut down the engine,” Mr. Socrates ordered. “It’s hot enough that we can start it up with a moment’s notice.”
Lizzie pushed a lever; the engine clunked and clanked to a stop, along with the propeller. The thundering was directly above them, and it made Modo’s very bones rattle. Only one thing could be making that noise. He leaned over the railing to crane his neck and see what was out there.
A shadow loomed over the Prince Albert; he could make out the edges of a massive conical balloon at least twice as large as theirs. Their pursuers had maneuvered themselves perfectly so that they were directly above the Prince Albert.
“Tharpa! Octavia! Ready your guns!” Mr. Socrates pulled his pistol from its holster.
Octavia set the pot on the floor, swept up her rifle, and leaned out of the car.
A hawklike screech echoed from below, and before Tharpa or Octavia could fire, the carbines were torn from their hands by two clockwork falcons. Modo’s last hope that somehow this was not the Clockwork Guild was gone.
“Start the engine, Lizzie!” Mr. Socrates charged over to twist dials on the hydrogen machine. “Hang on, everyone, we’re going to dive!”
Even as he spoke, a grappling hook swung down and hooked the wicker side of the car. It was followed by two more hooks, then four, and then there were at least six that Modo could count. The Prince Albert dropped a few feet and began to lurch back and forth. Then they were rising! The ship above actually had enough power to prevent them from diving!
Tharpa cut the rope of one hook; Modo grabbed a machete and cut another, then looked up to discover that the grappling hooks had jabbed into the exterior of the balloon itself, catching the netting. Hydrogen hissed out of several gashes.
Modo climbed up the side of the balloon, clinging to the netting as he hacked at the grappling-hook ropes. Above him, the enemy car was studded with metal, a sharp spur sticking straight out the front. If they had rammed the Prince Albert it would have easily punctured both the exterior and interior balloons. That could only mean they wanted Mr. Socrates and his group captured alive.
Goggled faces peered over the edge of the car above as they threw down more grappling hooks. Modo heard a bang, and a bullet that had just missed him punctured the balloon instead. He nearly dropped the machete. Maybe the enemy didn’t want them alive! He chopped through the last rope and the Prince Albert dropped and jerked so hard he was flung into the open air, releasing the machete and letting out a shout. He was surprised when his fall stopped suddenly and he was hanging upside down, swinging beside the wicker car. He twisted his neck to see his legs tangled up in the netting. Octavia grabbed him by the cloak and she and Tharpa yanked him into the car.
“Good to have you aboard again,” Tharpa said.
“Modo, man the firebox!” Mr. Socrates shouted.
Modo took his position, not daring to even think about how he had nearly fallen to his death. As he shoveled, he glanced over the side; they were getting closer to the earth—two thousand feet, perhaps.
Lizzie cranked the wheel, turning the ship this way and that. Wind and heat from the engine began to dry Modo’s eyes, so he grabbed a pair of goggles and placed them over his mask.
“This may be an inappropriate time to mention this,” Octavia said, “but goggles over a mask look rather silly.”
It wasn’t much of a joke but they both laughed so hard Modo worried Mr. Socrates would yell at them. Fortunately he was busy shouting orders at Lizzie.
“We are smaller; we should be able to outmaneuver them,” Mr. Socrates said. “Sixty degrees to port! Now, Lizzie! Crank it hard. More steam, Modo! Let’s see what their top speed is.”
The Prince Albert was fleeing at such a velocity that the outer balloon rippled, and yet they continued to sink. Their pursuer dove to their level and sneaked up behind them like a giant shark following the scent of blood, gaining quickly. Modo swallowed hard as he watched the glittering spar on the front of the airship.
“Tharpa, the elephant gun!”
Tharpa removed the double-barreled gun from its leather case. Modo had seen that gun on the mantel of Victor House and knew it was dear to Mr. Socrates. Beside it had hung his trophies from hunting some of the largest game on earth: Cape buffalo skulls, elephant tusks, and rhinoceros skulls. All had fallen victim to that gun.
Tharpa took up a position at the aft and calmly poured black powder down each barrel. He dropped a large round bullet into each one, then packed it all down with the ramrod. Hurry! Modo wanted to yell, but he knew Tharpa was moving as fast as possible.
“Give them both barrels,” Mr. Socrates shouted. “Aim at the balloon, not the car. Pretend it’s that elephant who charged us in Mozambique, old friend!”
Friend? Modo had never heard Mr. Socrates refer to Tharpa that way. Nor did he understand the jaunty tone in his voice; neither he nor Tharpa seemed frightened at all.
Tharpa grinned, raised the gun to his shoulder, and took aim. Modo was relieved that he pointed the barrel over the propeller; just one bullet would knock the spinning blades right off. Tharpa pulled the trigger, both hammers struck, and the gun went off with the sound and force of a cannon, knocking Tharpa back against the steam engine. A cloud of smoke filled the car, and when it cleared they couldn’t see any obvious damage. The bullets had ricocheted off the metal plates that protected the front of the balloon. Their enemy lunged closer. Modo could now make out the arrow-slit openings at the front of the car and the glint of goggles behind them.
“It’s called the Prometheus,” Mr. Socrates said. The name of the ship was emblazoned on its side. “Another Greek name! The Clockwork Guild does have a fondness for Hellenic names.” He sounded as though he were teaching a lesson. “Load again, Tharpa. Faster this time. I do believe you’ve slowed down in your old age.”
Tharpa raised one eyebrow as he began to load, then shot another volley that ricocheted off the front of the car. The goggled heads in the window slits disappeared, then reappeared.
A fire flared on the starboard side of the Prometheus and Modo nearly raised his arms in celebration; perhaps a bullet had hit home or their steam engine was bursting into flames. But the fire began to dart toward them. It hissed by the wicker car, trailing smoke and sparks as it arced its way down to the jungle floor. Any closer and it would have caught the hydrogen leaking from the balloon.
“Chinese rockets!” Mr. Socrates shouted. “I do believe they meant to miss us. The next shot will be true. They’ll expect our surrender.”
A woman’s voice blared out of a speaking trumpet at the front of the Prometheus. “At any moment we can knock you from the sky. Stop your engines, put down y
our guns, and prepare to be boarded. We promise to spare your lives.”
Modo knew that voice, the slight Scandinavian accent.
“Miss Hakkandottir, sir!” he exclaimed.
Mr. Socrates nodded and said coolly, “It’s been many years since I’ve heard it, but I’d know that flat tone anywhere.”
Modo was impressed at how calm his master sounded. Mr. Socrates turned to the altimeter, flicked it once with his finger. “We’re at one thousand feet,” he reported. “Turn off the engine, please, Lizzie.”
“Off, sir?” Modo asked as Lizzie began shutting several valves.
“Yes. We can’t outrun them and we can’t pierce their armor with our gun. If we dive they’ll only grapple us again, or they could easily rocket us out of the sky.” He holstered his pistol. “Better to meet them face to face and see what we’re dealing with.”
Modo doubted there were any weaknesses in the floating behemoth behind them. The Prince Albert’s propeller thudded to a stop and the engine noise of the Prometheus grew louder as the enemy ship caught up with them. A black flag, with a clock in a triangle, flapped from a pulley at the bottom of the car.
The enemy pulled up alongside them, their steel-plated car looking more like an armored galleon. Two rectangular doors fell open like drawbridges, revealing eight Guild soldiers, rifles pointed at them. Behind the soldiers was Carpenter—though Modo thought it was unlikely that was really the man’s name. He had a falcon on either wrist. Miss Hakkandottir, red hair blowing in the wind, stepped out from between them in her usual dramatic fashion.
“Alan!” she shouted with a wry smile. “It is a distinct pleasure to see you again.”
Alan? She was looking at Mr. Socrates. Of course, that was his first name!
“Yes, Ingrid. It’s been fifteen years. Must your men point their peashooters at us?”
“At ease,” she said to the soldiers, and they lowered their rifles.
“I see you have a new hand,” Mr. Socrates noted.
Miss Hakkandottir raised it to the sun and the metal sparkled. Modo imagined her polishing it day and night. She had once poked a sharp metal finger into his eye, nearly blinding him. “Yes. It has been extremely useful. I should thank you for removing my original one.”
“And you have a new master?” Mr. Socrates asked. “Did he come with the hand?”
“I would rather not shout such scintillating repartee across ship bows,” she yelled. “I will tell you all about us in time. First, we will attach a towing rope and send over a boarding crew. Our own pilot will ensure you arrive safe and sound with us at our base. There we can have a proper conversation. I see you still have the Indian with you. Oh, and that’s Modo, is it not? Who else would wear a mask? I have been hoping we would meet again.”
Modo stood as straight as he could under her cool eyes and glanced at Mr. Socrates. Would he order an attack? He was concentrating, staring at the Prometheus, seeming to be searching for weaknesses. But all Modo could see were the soldiers, rockets, and metal armor plating.
“We welcome your boarding party,” Mr. Socrates shouted. Then he turned his face slightly and scratched at his cheek, hiding his next words from Miss Hakkandottir. “Better to take our chances falling to the ground. On my order, Tharpa, fire the flare gun into our outer balloon. The force will blow them out of the air. We’ll fall, but hopefully the forest floor and the springs of the car will save us.”
Modo exchanged glances with Octavia, then peeped over the edge. They would die. His breath grew shallow. Octavia’s fingers briefly touched his. He wished she’d grab his hand.
“Alan!” Miss Hakkandottir shouted. “Please bring your ship closer!”
There must be another way! Looking up, Modo saw one of the grappling ropes hanging above them, the hook still firmly caught in the balloon. The rope was just long enough.
As he took a step back to make a run at it, Tharpa grabbed his arm. “No, young sahib. It will not work.”
Modo nodded to Tharpa. “You’re right, teacher,” he said, and let the air out of his lungs, making himself look deflated and resigned. Then, with a twist of his arm—a move Tharpa had taught him years ago—he broke his trainer’s grip and launched himself through the air, shouting, “Fly! Fly! Save yourselves!”
He grabbed the dangling rope and swung, increasing his momentum. Halfway between the two ships he let go, arcing majestically toward the Prometheus.
Stupid, Stupid Fool
It was the bravest and stupidest act Octavia had ever seen. One moment they were all standing still, hoping not to get shot, and the next Modo was shouting and flying through the air like a circus acrobat.
“Modo! You stupid, stupid fool!” she couldn’t help screaming at him. He’d misjudged and was dropping like a stone, plunging toward the forest floor. Octavia sucked in a panicky breath. He passed within arm’s reach of the bottom of the enemy ship, snatched the Clockwork Guild flag with both hands, and hung on. His weight actually rocked the Prometheus’s car like a pendulum. Immediately, he began to climb up to the bottom.
Bullets ripped through the air and Octavia was knocked to the floor. At first she thought she’d been shot; then she realized something was holding her down. Tharpa!
“Do not stand up,” he said. As he lay on his side, he began to load the elephant gun.
“Start the engine, Lizzie!” Mr. Socrates shouted. It fired up, the boiler still hot enough to produce steam. “Dive, dive, dive!”
Octavia crawled over next to Mr. Socrates.
“We can’t just leave Modo!”
“Nor can we stay in their line of fire. Get to the bow and guide us.”
“But he’ll die!”
“I won’t leave Modo.” The determination in his voice surprised her. “We’re going to pass under the Prometheus so he can drop onto our balloon. That’s the new plan. The little fool didn’t follow my orders, so you had better!”
She crawled to the bow, pausing to check for Modo. He’d made it to the underside of the Prometheus and was working his way toward the back, but there were already soldiers crawling down the sides of the car to rid themselves of their parasite.
Her stomach performed a somersault as the Prince Albert suddenly plunged toward the earth.
A Swan Dive
About halfway between the airships, Modo discovered that he’d miscalculated: he’d miss the enemy car entirely. As he arced below the Prometheus he reached out and grabbed the huge flag flapping at the bottom. He clung to it, stunned, thanking the Fates that it held his weight. The enemy’s cursed flag had saved his life—for the moment, anyway. For a second he wondered what Tharpa thought of this horrible display of acrobatics; then he began to climb. He didn’t dare look down.
After he’d gone a few feet it occurred to him: he had no plan. In any case, he had no options. Up was the only way to go. He would give them something to remember him by. The longer he fought, the better the chance his companions would escape. He focused on getting to the metal springs on the underside of the Prometheus, climbing hand over hand until he reached them.
The Prince Albert dropped past him with such speed that he only got a glimpse of his fellow agents lying on the floor. Were they deserting him? Or maybe one had been shot. Or all of them! But Lizzie must be alive, because the ship was spiraling down on an exceptionally well-controlled path.
Hakkandottir would know he was down here. There were eight soldiers in the car armed with rifles; a pilot, or two, maybe; an engineer; and Miss Hakkandottir. Each would be armed, and all he had were his bare hands. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a machete?
Then he remembered the clockwork falcons. Fool! He scanned the sky for their shapes, but they were either pursuing the Prince Albert or waiting on their master’s arm above him.
The Prometheus’s steam engine roared as the ship dove in pursuit of the Prince Albert. He looked down to see that the Prince Albert was circling a few hundred feet below. They seemed to be keeping pace with the enemy, and it dawned on him
that they might be waiting for him to jump. How long they could maintain their position, he had no idea. He could just wait here for them to ascend close enough. Then, once he landed on board, he could grab the netting on the exterior balloon. But that would mean the chase would just begin again and they’d be no farther ahead. No, the Prometheus had to be disabled, one way or another.
He swung along under the car, clutching the springs and hoping that the bolts were strong enough to bear his weight. The best way to stop the enemy, of course, would be to bring the whole thing down. But it wasn’t as if he had a stick of dynamite.
Focus on what you have! Think!
The most logical thing to do was to damage the engine. He could jam the propeller, but how to accomplish it? A stolen rifle would be chopped in half. If he could just see the engine itself, maybe he’d have his answer.
The Prometheus turned to starboard and a blast of wind caught him, blowing his cloak around so his hood became tangled in a spring. He tried to extricate it with his left hand, holding tight to the ship with his right, but the spring had poked a hole through the fabric.
His right hand suddenly stung so painfully that he opened it and found himself hanging by his hood, swinging back and forth in the wind. A Guild soldier with a pipe wrench was right behind him, arm raised for another smash, his other hand gripping the spring. Modo let out a yelp and caught the wrench, absorbing a bone-shaking blow. He pulled himself up using the man’s arm, tearing his hood free. He was eye to eye with the enemy. Modo got a grip on a spring and yanked the wrench out of the soldier’s hands. The soldier tried to grab Modo but slipped, falling headfirst through the air. Modo turned his face away.
A bullet ricocheted off the metal undercarriage. Another Guild soldier was twenty feet away, hanging by one hand, aiming his pistol with the other. Modo tucked the pipe wrench in his belt and scrambled aft as quickly as he could, then swung himself up and was nearly decapitated by the propeller. He pressed hard against the side, hoping the wind wouldn’t blow his cloak into it. But as he edged around the side of the car, the blades caught the hem. With all his strength Modo yanked it out—now in tatters. Why did I wear a cloak! he wanted to scream.
