by Arthur Slade
“You’ve slept for ten hours. I could wait no longer. I need to know what you’ve discovered about the Young Londoners Exploratory Society. But first I must compliment you. You have passed the test.”
Modo’s lips were so dry it hurt to smile, but smile he did.
“I’m pleased by your progress,” Mr. Socrates continued. “You’ve adapted to your surroundings, found lodging, procured a source of income, and used all means at your disposal to survive. Perfect. I felt that you were ready for the next step, so I had Octavia assign you a task. You’re to be congratulated. The faith that I have placed in you has been rewarded.”
“Thank you, sir. It was … uh, sometimes I didn’t eat so well.” He let out a breath, and then, more angrily than intended, said, “I nearly died, you know.”
“Yes,” Mr. Socrates replied. “I’m aware of that.”
But Modo’s anger continued to flare. You pushed me out of the coach. You abandoned me on the street to fend for myself. He sucked in a deep breath.
Mr. Socrates didn’t seem to notice his broiling mood. “I cannot resist congratulating myself. Your carefully planned upbringing has paid off. I have taken many notes on my methods and will employ them again in the future.”
Employ them again? With whom? Did he have other young agents he was raising? Modo was surprised to feel a stab of jealousy. Did Mr. Socrates like the other agents more? Were they handsome? Beautiful? Modo ground his teeth. He was being silly. What he wanted most was for his master to pat him on the shoulder. He was reminded of the last person to pat his back. “Is Mrs. Finchley here?”
Mr. Socrates shook his head. “She has other duties.”
Another stab of jealousy! Was she looking after another agent-in-training? Modo swallowed the lump in his throat.
“Is she keeping well?”
“Do not dwell on her, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said. “She has served her purpose in your life. Do not succumb to sentimental attachments.”
“And should I forget you, too, if need be?” Modo asked.
Mr. Socrates looked momentarily startled. “Well, well, well. You have grown a bit of a spine, Modo. Good. But don’t become flippant.” He tapped his walking stick once on the floor. “You did fail in one aspect.”
“And what was that?”
Mr. Socrates produced a section from the Times and handed it to Modo. On the bottom of the page was a headline: House burned down by escaped convict. Modo read the story quickly.
THE HOUSE AT 22 BALCOMBE STREET has burned to the ground. No one was found inside and the owner, one Mr. Arden Munsen, is away in India, but witnesses saw a deranged convict escaping the blaze. “He was deformed,” a bystander reported. “It shall not be hard for the authorities to track him down.”
Modo felt sick, remembering how a woman had actually fainted at the sight of him. Then a horrid thought occurred to him: His enemies would read this and know he had escaped. Picturing the red-haired woman set on his destruction made him panic, but he took solace in the knowledge that they would have no way of tracking him and no idea what he really looked like.
Mr. Socrates gathered up the paper. “As a rule, I prefer no descriptions of my agents to appear in print.”
“It won’t happen again, sir,” Modo said. “Next time I’ll just let myself burn up in the blaze.”
Mr. Socrates actually let out a chuckle. “You are coming into your own, Modo. I am proud of you.”
Modo felt pleased.
There was a knock at the door. Tharpa stuck his head into the room. By way of a greeting, he nodded to Modo, then said to Mr. Socrates, “Miss Milkweed has arrived.”
“Bring her up.”
Tharpa nodded again and left.
Modo was disappointed not to get so much as a “Nice to see you” from Tharpa. Then he realized what Tharpa had said.
“Miss Milkweed?” Modo asked, full of hope.
“Yes. Octavia has arrived. I must say finding her was a fine piece of detective work.”
Modo sat up, alarmed. “She’s on her way up here?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she can’t see me like this.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not dressed properly.” Modo looked around desperately for clothes, wincing as his ribs moved. He threw on a large robe that had been hanging on the bedpost, and his hump disappeared into its great folds.
“Don’t be modest, Modo. She’s a professional agent. She has seen worse things than a young invalid.”
“Where’s my mask? I don’t want her to see my face.” He’d meant it to be a calm statement but heard himself whining.
“Ah, now I understand. You’re feeling more than modesty. Well, you should not always rely on your mask. Why don’t you just transform your face?”
“There isn’t enough time.”
“There is if you concentrate.”
Which face had he used? Ah, yes, the knight, of course. His bones and muscles knew the face well. He set his jaw, pictured his nose straight and perfect. Just his face, that’s all he needed to change. Sweat beaded his brow. His heart thudded against his breastbone. He made his nose straighten.
Footsteps echoed in the stairwell outside his door. She was climbing the stairs, talking to Tharpa. He recognized the timbre of her voice, but couldn’t catch the words.
He lowered his ears and made them shrink, sweat dripping into his eyes.
“You’re botching it,” Mr. Socrates scolded. “Your eyes are uneven. Concentrate. You’ve done this a thousand times.”
Their footsteps were growing closer. Octavia laughed lightly. Modo hadn’t even begun to work on his hair.
“Concentrate!” Mr. Socrates commanded.
The door swung open. Modo slapped a disfigured hand over his face, but Tharpa entered first, then motioned to their guest to stop, closing the door in her face. He marched to the bed, grabbed a nightcap from the desk, and pulled it over Modo’s head, then handed him a handkerchief. Modo covered his face with it. “Your eyes,” Tharpa said, “straighten them. Let the rest go. Then all will be well.”
Modo caught the sideways grin Mr. Socrates gave Tharpa. “You’re being overly protective,” he said.
“The secret of his face should remain a secret,” Tharpa answered flatly; then he returned to the door.
Mr. Socrates shrugged. “Yes. I suppose. The secret is more important than this little test. Bring her in.”
Modo finished straightening his eyes and tied the handkerchief across his nose and mouth. How long would his features stay that way?
Octavia glided in wearing a gray dress, her hair concealed under a pink bonnet. Mr. Socrates took her hand. “How kind of you to join us, Miss Milkweed.” He motioned toward Modo. “You’ve already met our guest.”
“Yes.” Her piercing eyes examined Modo. “I’m glad to see you again, sir. Why are you covering your face?”
“I—I have a rash.”
“Nothing contagious, I hope.”
“No, of course not,” he replied. Her presence filled the room with light. “I … uh, I was told you helped bring me here. I thank you for that.”
“Oh, you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”
Modo pictured scratching her back and blushed.
“Please have a seat.” Mr. Socrates motioned to a chair near Modo’s bed and she sat down. Tharpa left the room.
Mr. Socrates leaned forward on his walking stick. “I’ve called this impromptu meeting to ascertain what each of you has discovered. I don’t normally introduce my agents to one another, but I have good reason to do so today. I’ve heard Miss Milkweed’s version of events. Now, Modo, please tell us yours.”
Modo spoke haltingly, his tongue heavy and his thoughts slow. He felt as though he’d never stop blushing. Octavia observed him like an owl. He began with his arrival at Twenty-two Balcombe Street and described what had happened in as much detail as possible. His nightcap kept slipping, so he gave it a good tug every minute or so. He couldn’t prevent the occasi
onal cough, and twice he tightened the handkerchief over his face.
When he finished, Mr. Socrates asked, “This list of names—do you remember how many were on it?”
Modo closed his eyes and tried to recall the table and the various sheets of paper. “I believe there were eight names, sir.”
“Believe? We must be certain. Tell us the names.”
Modo strained to see the writing in his mind’s eye.
“It said citizens Boon, Saxe-Coburg, Cournet … uh … Featherstone … that’s all I can recall, sir.”
“Each person on that list may be in danger. Try harder.”
“I … I can’t see them.”
Mr. Socrates tapped Modo’s leg with the walking stick. “People may die because you have not been thorough enough.”
“Chastising him won’t bring the names back,” Octavia said. Modo wanted to hug her. Mr. Socrates gave her a long withering look, but she didn’t flinch. Finally, Mr. Socrates broke the silence. “Well, Modo, I am disappointed, but now you understand why you must follow my methodologies in detail. Each lesson I gave you had its purpose. Even though you didn’t know this was an official assignment, you should have automatically memorized that list.”
“I won’t make that mistake again.”
“We have a partial list. Interesting that it has Saxe-Coburg on it. That would be Prince Albert, I assume, sneaking out of the palace on his own. We’ll keep an eye on him. No sense having the Queen in danger, or any of the Royals for that matter. And we’ll track down the others you listed.”
“Sir, may I ask why you sent me there in the first place?”
“I have many agents who go to anarchist meetings. The Young Londoners Exploratory Society kept being mentioned by the wrong sort, even though it is a registered scientific organization. We were able to ascertain that Oscar Featherstone had recently joined. So we sent you to discover more.”
“And I failed,” Modo said, putting his head in his hands.
“Don’t be melodramatic. There were things you did incorrectly, but you did not fail. Finish your account of the assignment.”
Modo relayed the rest of the story, ending with the burning building. He left out the way in which the crowd had reacted to his appearance.
“The man you spoke of, Mr. Fuhr, is known to us,” Mr. Socrates said. “I’m impressed that you actually locked horns with him and escaped relatively unscathed.”
Unscathed? Modo tried to ignore his aching ribs.
“Until about a year ago, Mr. Fuhr was a lieutenant in the British navy. We had just discovered that he was an undercover agent, most likely for the Germans, and were watching him. In an act of, I suppose, bravery, he kept his battery post during a minor conflict and was struck by an explosive shell that took his arms and legs. He came very close to death. Odd to think that he would have died for Queen and Country, if that were the last we had heard of him. Doctors were able to stop the bleeding and keep him alive. But one night he disappeared from his bed.”
Mr. Socrates leaned back in his chair. “It was the oddest thing. How does a man with no arms and no legs escape from a medical tent? He did though, and was outfitted with appendages that I believe may be powered by steam. This technology is well beyond our own. He has recently surfaced in Hong Kong and New York. Only one of our other agents survived an encounter with him, so you’ve done well, Modo.
“The woman you speak of is another matter altogether: Miss Ingrid Hakkandottir. I have met her on three occasions. She’s a Swede, but it’s difficult to trace her masters. German? Russian? She may belong to the Chinese. She seems to move from one organization to another. There’s no one more ruthless.”
Modo agreed. His eye still hurt.
“Her left hand was made of metal,” Octavia said, squeezing her own hands together. “Do you know the story behind that?”
“She lost it in a sword fight on the deck of a pirate ship, of all things. She’s an excellent swordsman … woman.” Mr. Socrates paused. “Oh, and it was a sword fight with me, by the way. Twenty years ago.”
“You cut off her hand?” Modo blurted out in disbelief.
His master paused and took a deep breath. Then, without the slightest hint of regret, he said, “Yes. Outside Hong Kong. We had stopped a Chinese junk we believed to be smuggling goods and she was the captain. Even though we had shot her crew dead and she was outnumbered, she wouldn’t put down her saber. She called me some nasty names and demanded I duel with her. I couldn’t refuse the challenge. We fought on the deck while my men watched. I was left with a few scars and a punctured lung. She lost her hand.”
“A formidable woman,” Octavia said.
“She is most certainly driven. I told her to surrender. Instead, she wrapped a belt around her stub, then picked up her saber with her other hand. She drove me back to the railing, but, sensing that she could not win, she dove into the ocean. Naturally, I assumed she would bleed to death or drown.
“Years later I began to hear reports of a woman with red hair and a hook for a hand. Then, more recently, reports mentioned a metal hand. We’d love to capture her and acquire the technology.”
Modo remembered the coldness in her eyes. “What is she doing in London?”
“I wish I knew. I will admit I don’t understand the purpose of this Young Londoners Exploratory Society. Obviously it’s a cover for something else. The very fact that Fuhr and Hakkandottir are working together is worrisome. I’ll be commanding the authorities to keep tabs on the young men whose names you’ve given us. One wonders why they belong to this group. We are in the business of listening to the wind.”
“The symbol I saw on the piece of paper, what did it mean?” Modo asked.
“Ah, the paper. That was a good piece of work to hide it in your sleeve.” Modo grinned. “This symbol, the clock in a triangle, has been showing up around the globe—America, France, Australia. The diagrams on this page are very interesting.” He handed it to Modo. “It seems Fuhr didn’t expect you to survive your encounter, or he wouldn’t have let you see this.”
It was a drawing of a series of squares that together created what looked like an odd device. Modo tapped the paper. “The shape is human, if you imagine it with a head.”
Octavia was looking over his shoulder, close enough that he could smell her perfume. She poked the paper with a perfect pale finger. “The protrusions at the end of these rectangles—these arms, if you will—look like crab claws. Are they meant to be hands?”
Modo stopped staring at her finger long enough to memorize every detail of the drawing. “And each of those squares has what looks to be a gyroscope. How very odd.”
Mr. Socrates took the paper back. “It’s probably some kind of war machine; perhaps a suit of armor that a soldier climbs into—though it would need an engine to power it. Imagine ten soldiers with armor such as this. Or a hundred.”
Modo raised his eyebrows in wonder. That would be a spectacle.
“And then there are the children,” Octavia said to Modo, who gave her a bewildered look.
“Oh,” Mr. Socrates interjected, “Miss Milkweed has pursued a different goal. She has seen one of the feral children, firsthand. You remember reading about the beastlike child several months ago? Well, that boy’s not the only one. An epidemic, of sorts, has infected street urchins and orphans.” He turned to Octavia. “Please tell Modo, and me, a shortened version of what you discovered at Breckham Moral and Industrial School. I may glean more details from a story well told.”
“Thankee, guvnuh,” she said, her voice a light falsetto. “It’s me honor to be jawin’ wif you.”
“Drop the cockneyisms, Tavia. You left that accent on the street.”
“Very well, then.” She clapped her hands together twice. “Everyone listen to my tale well told!” As fascinating as her story was, Modo found his attention drifting. He was mesmerized by her face, her quick eyes, her soft lips and the way they moved around her words. Her earlobes peeked out from under her bonnet. “And th
en she disappeared,” she finished.
Mr. Socrates said, “The subject that Octavia discovered, and lost, I might add—”
“Orders were to only observe her. I attempted to save … to bring her back.”
“If you had followed orders, we would know exactly where she was right now, wouldn’t we?”
Octavia looked away from him in a huff. “Uh, well, yes—now that you put it that way.”
“That goes for both of you: Obey my orders. You are still far too impetuous.”
“Hear that, Modo, we’re impetuous twins!” Octavia reached over from where she was sitting and put her hand on his shoulder. He stiffened. It felt wonderful, but her fingers were almost touching the edge of his hump. Would she notice it? She lifted her hand, but leaving behind the heat of it to warm him.
“Now, this girl—” Mr. Socrates began.
“Her name was … is Ester,” Octavia interrupted.
“Yes, Ester. She had metal bolts in her shoulders. So someone was attempting to alter her. From what I understand this experiment changes the character of these children; they become extraordinarily strong. Ester must have been treated and escaped, made her way back to her home, then the governess tried to fix her without a doctor. But why would Ester want to leave again?”
“I believe they are mesmerized into returning to the place these experiments are conducted,” Octavia said.
“Why do you say that?”
“The girl muttered a little rhyme about going back to Orlando. I don’t know where or even what that is, but she repeated it twice.”
“Maybe Orlando is a person,” Modo suggested.
“We’ll discover the source,” Mr. Socrates said. “Modo, once you’ve rested for a few days, there will be more work for you. We will get to the root of this.”
Mr. Socrates stood and tapped his walking stick on the floor. Octavia got up as well and stepped to the bedside.
“It was a pleasure to see you again, Modo. Perhaps next time we’ll be working side by side instead of spying on each other.”
Modo only nodded, but smiled idiotically under his handkerchief.