by Arthur Slade
They arrived on Berkeley Street, breathless, and Octavia hailed a cab. She gave the driver an address near Seven Dials.
“Why there?” Modo asked.
“At other times, when needed, I have relied on contacts from my old life.”
“Your old life?”
“My time as a pickpocket and grifter.”
“And you still have dealings with these thieves?” Modo blurted out.
“Why are you so judgmental?”
“I’m not judgmental!”
This prompted a snort from Octavia. “Who did you play with to make you behave this way?” she asked.
“I didn’t play. I never left the house.”
“You never left the house? Ever?”
“Not until six months ago.”
She actually looked concerned; maybe even sad. “That’s terribly cruel.”
“No, no. Mr. Socrates was training me to be an agent.”
“How many years were you there?”
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen years!” Her eyes flashed.
“He saved me,” Modo said weakly. But he knew she was right, at least in part. It was where his own anger was rooted. There was so much more he would have learned had he been allowed to live a real life.
“Saved you from what, Modo?”
Of course, he couldn’t tell her that. Mr. Socrates had told him that he was such a deformed child that the orphanage had sold him to gypsies and they had profited from displaying his ugliness in a traveling grotesqueries show. “He just did. You must believe me.”
“He’s not much better than this Dr. Hyde, then.”
“Mr. Socrates is kind to you and to me!”
“For his own purposes, yes.”
“No, he … he …” And Modo nearly said the words loves me. But he had no way of knowing that.
“This is confounding you, Modo. I’m sorry, but I do like to speak my mind. It would be best if you got used to it.”
He glared at her, but he didn’t imagine she could mea sure his anger through the mask. The way she sat with her back so straight, her face so haughty, infuriated him. How dare she speak of Mr. Socrates that way, after all the master had done for her. For him. For Britain.
“Are you done sulking?” she asked as the hansom cab pulled to a stop. “If not, you can stay in here.” She climbed out and paid the driver.
Modo leapt down from his side. Octavia had already gone on ahead, crowds of muffin men and vagabonds closing in around her. It was midafternoon, and they hoped to sell their wares to sailors and other workers going to or coming from the docks. Modo snapped his head to the left and right, searching for Octavia, his heart beating wildly. He glanced at the nearest rooftop, every nerve shouting for him to flee the hordes. He’d been in this section of St. Giles before, but always on a rooftop. People jostled him; someone’s elbow nearly knocked his mask off.
Then, through a break in the crowd, he spotted Octavia striding away from him. Modo ran for a breathless minute and caught up with her.
“Don’t dawdle,” she said.
“Don’t walk so fast!”
She stopped in front of a child, his unkempt hair the color of coal, his shirt more holes than thread. The boy’s eyes darted back and forth between Modo and Octavia.
“Take me to Taff,” she said.
“Taff ent just seein’ nobody,” he replied. “You wait ’ere, I’ll ask ’im ’bout an audience.” He darted off, slipping into the crowd like a weasel into a hole, and came back a few minutes later with an older boy who said, “Mr. Taff will see you now.” The older child led the three of them down a narrow alley. They passed doors crowded with half-crazed looking men, thin and pale.
“Opium dens,” Octavia said, matter-of-factly.
Modo had heard about those places. Men smoked the substance and it turned them into monsters; that was how Mrs. Finchley had explained it to Modo.
The boys led them into an ancient lodging house. The timbers had shifted so that the frame was at a precarious angle and the rotted door swung on one hinge. Inside were several tables; an old man sat at one of them. At the sight of Octavia, he stood and walked toward her, every second step thumping loudly on the slatted floor. When he got around the table, Modo could see that he had a wooden leg. He held a mug that sloshed with beer.
“Old Taff thought it were a lady come to visit.” The man had a gray-black beard and fiery eyes. “But it’s just my dear ol’ Octavia. And look at you, all fancied up and haristocratic, I see. And who’s his lordship beside ’er?”
“My companion’s name is Modo.”
“Oh, and listen to you! Speaking all refined and like that. Who you calling ‘friend’ these days, I wonder?”
Octavia rolled her eyes.
“Oh, I know, I know,” Taff continued, “the word is you keep interesting company these days, including this man. Pray tell, why the mask?”
Octavia replied before Modo had a chance. “He’s a frowner. It makes his face look rather nasty.”
Modo stiffened.
Taff nodded, gave Modo a wink. “I should wear a mask too. Me figurehead ain’t so pleasant. Neither’s the rest of me.” He tapped his wooden leg and chortled. “Suppose you’re wondering where my good leg went? Well, lad, it’s shark food. Lost it to a cannonball in service of ’Er Majesty. A cryin’ shame. Me boys are me legs now.” He took a chug from his beer. “Well, Octavia, as always Ol’ Taff is ’appy to see you. None of these scabs could match your skill. You be lookin’ for employment, then?”
She laughed lightly. “It’s wisest to leave that business once one reaches hanging age. Garret taught me that.”
Taff nodded. “’Is death still makes me ’eart ’eavy. I miss that lad.”
“Yes, and well you should,” she said, rather coldly. “I’ve come for a favor.”
“A favor?” Taff rubbed his hands together. “Yes, I so enjoy providin’ favors.”
“I need you to tell me what you know about all the missing children.”
“The inspectors don’t want to talk about it, but me business is hurtin’. I’ve lost several of me mob already.”
“Did you ever find any of them again?”
“One boy, Willie, and ’e told tales of laborin’ under the ground in tunnels. Then ’e went yellow and died. I think ’is insides stopped workin’.”
Modo imagined Oppie dying the same hideous way. “Who’s behind the kidnappings?” he asked.
“Oh, so ’e speaks, does ’e?” Taff said with a sneer.
“Yes, and he asked an important question,” Octavia said.
“The papers are wrong. The number of urchins who’ve disappeared is much ’igher. None of my riffraff’ll work at night anymore. I cain’t say I blames ’em. I’d go meself, but for this gimp leg. Lost it to a cannonball, you know.”
“You mentioned that,” Modo said.
“Did I? Hmmm. Must be goin’ balmy, eh?”
“Where did you find that boy? Willie?” Octavia asked.
“The other boys found ’im near a boarded-up train tunnel entrance on Fleet Lane. Closed to the public, if you gets me meaning.”
“I do,” Octavia said.
“And that will be one favor owed.” There was a gruffness in his voice and a sly glint in his eye. “I shall remember that, Octavia.”
26
The Heart Cog
Oppie did not rest or even stop to eat. His body followed the commands of the men in greatcoats, shoveling coal from the rail cart into a huge burning furnace. Other men melted metal and hammered it into shapes on several anvils. When the cart was empty, Oppie would walk down the track and, along with several children, drag the next cart into place and begin to shovel again.
Once he slipped on loose coal and fell onto his back without a sound, despite the excruciating pain. He’d been instructed not to make any noise, and so he didn’t.
It was while lying on his back that he first saw the roof of the large cavern, lines of gaslights hangi
ng from wires stretched wall to wall, scaffolding reaching to the top. For a brief time, he was able to control his hand. He stared at his palm. It was blistered and black with coal dust. He turned it over to see hairs growing across the back. Then he found he could turn his other hand over and, realizing that he had control of part of his body again, he thought about running. Yes, if only he could make his legs move, he could roll over and run. He touched the bolts in his shoulders and began to moan. Then one of the guards shouted and the doctor brought more of the burning drink. His body went back to its task.
Sometime later the doctor stood beside him, saying, “You’re my creation now. Come with me.” He led Oppie along a metal framework, past the machine the children had helped construct. Oppie didn’t understand what it was. It had arms at least fifteen feet long, but what would it lift? “You will have a very special place,” the doctor told Oppie.
They climbed a ramp and walked across the machine. Spread out flat below their feet were many metallic rectangular boxes, like small coffins, with manacles chained inside each one. The doctor told Oppie to lie down in one of the boxes with his back on a leather hammock. A large man leaned over, grunting as he attached Oppie’s shoulder bolts to the rectangle and tightened them in place with a wrench. He snapped Oppie’s feet into manacles.
“This will keep you steady,” the doctor said, “for you’ll be shouldering a heavy load.” He showed Oppie two wires. They were attached to a hand-sized gyroscope above his head. “The filaments will send you messages only your muscles will understand and will draw from your inner energy.” He clamped a wire to each of Oppie’s bolts and the filaments immediately began to glow. Sparks flew and Oppie felt his muscles tighten. The gyroscope above his head began to spin. “It is set properly. Good.”
The doctor patted his arm. “I know, it’s hard to understand, but I’m proud of you and all your brothers and sisters. The mind … the mind is turning out to be more powerful than even I had understood it to be. And, in the end, it is the mind that will bring this whole machine to life.”
The doctor left and Oppie could only stare upward. He wanted to shout, Let me go! but it was impossible.
Two men stepped over him, grunting, carrying a body. The body’s head flopped forward and Oppie found himself looking right into the glazed eyes of Prince Albert. The prince showed no hint of recognizing him or even being aware of his surroundings. The men lowered the prince out of Oppie’s sight, but by the tightening of screws, Oppie guessed they were bolting him to the machine.
“What? What is this?” Prince Albert slurred.
“Ah, enough, tut-tut.” It was the doctor’s voice. “More of the potion. It will make you feel better.” This was followed by a gurgling sound and a cough. “You will be the heart cog, Your Highness,” the doctor explained. “I’m so proud of you. I’m so very proud of all of you.”
27
Into Orlando
It wasn’t until Modo and Octavia had walked several streets past the rookeries and rotting inns of St. Giles that they found a cabbie who’d been brave enough to drive through the most dangerous parts of London. Once in the cab they bumped and jostled along, eventually passing better streets and then, Newgate Prison. The sight of the massive stone building turned Modo’s imagination to the many criminals trapped within it, pacing their cells, dreaming of the murders they’d commit once released. He scolded himself. Some might be as innocent as Oscar Featherstone. The poor young man was likely pacing the floor himself, at the edge of madness by now. Newgate Prison was where Featherstone would be taken to be hanged. Which reminded Modo of something else. “May I ask you a question?” he said. Octavia grinned. “May I tell you a lie?”
He faked a chuckle, found his throat was dry. “Who was Garret? You and Taff referred to him.”
Her smile faded and her eyes hardened. “A mate. He looked out for me.”
“Why was he hanged?”
“He was caught stealing a pocket watch. A pocket watch is worth a life, that’s what the haristocrats think. Didn’t take long for them to decide he was guilty, either. Next thing we knew ol’ Garret was dancing upon nothing.” Her eyes teared up and she dabbed at them with her fingertips. “I watched him hang. All of us mates went to wish him well. It was one of the last public hangings. I was eleven. I learned something that day.”
“What?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Modo did want to know, but the look in her eyes made him hesitate to pursue it any further.
The cab let them off at Fleet Lane. The sidewalk was crammed with people who were certainly better dressed than the denizens of St. Giles, but they didn’t seem to care whom they bumped into. A few stared at Modo and he wondered if it was because they were amazed that he was with such a beautiful young woman. Or was it just the mask? I could take it off, he thought. That would give them something to look at.
At the far end of Fleet Lane they came to a round two-story building made of brick. At one time it had been the entrance to an underground railway. The afternoon sun lit the top of it, making the bricks glow. The door was nailed shut with several boards. “This is the entrance Taff spoke of,” Octavia said, “but we won’t be going in that way.” They walked around back. “See the window?” Octavia pointed at it. “Show me how you can jump, Modo.”
“I don’t do tricks,” he replied. “At least not without double pay.”
He looked up and down the street for witnesses, then used a few overhanging bricks to climb to the window. As he squeezed himself into the tiny frame, he wished he had a child’s body. He worried he would be stuck there with his buttocks hanging in the air. The ridiculous image gave him the strength he needed to yank himself through to the inside.
He stepped down onto a support timber, lowered himself to the floor, followed a set of stairs to the front door, and shouldered it open wide enough for Octavia to enter.
“You’re a thumping big man,” she said, squeezing his arm. Modo shrugged.
A gold-lettered sign said ENTRANCE TO ORLANDO RAILROAD, 1870. Whoever had built this, Modo realized, had expected thousands of customers a day. Now, only three short years later, they were rewarded with spiderwebs.
Octavia stood under the sign, staring up at it. “Well, I’ll be.”
“You’ll be what?”
“The girl I found—Ester—kept saying, ‘Must go back to Orlando.’ It was like a poem. And this is Orlando Railroad. I think we’re on the right track, mate.”
Modo nearly fell over. She’d called him mate. It felt good. No, it felt wonderful.
Modo dug the pocket lucifer out of his belt pouch and held it high enough to see down an impressive spiral stairwell. “Glad you found us another lucifer,” Octavia said.
“Me too. It means I get to lead.” The air grew colder and soon all he heard was his own wheezy breathing and Octavia’s footsteps behind him. “Someone spent a lot of money to have these steps carved,” he said. “They’re marble, for heaven’s sake.”
At the bottom, they pushed through creaking turnstiles, passed a ticket booth, and stepped onto a platform for an underground train. The black and white marble-tiled floors were layered with dust. A few rats skittered away and Modo let his light follow them, until a pair of human boots were caught in the beam. He stepped back against the wall and pulled Octavia along with him.
“We have a visitor,” Modo hissed.
“Where?”
“There!” Modo moved the light up from the intruder’s feet.
“He’s not moving,” Octavia whispered.
“No. But he must surely see my light. Should I put it out?”
“Too late.” She slapped Modo’s back. “I know him!” She dashed up to the figure. “You should, too.”
“Wait!” Modo said, running after her.
“The Duke of Wellington, I presume,” she said, hanging from the figure’s arm.
It was a statue of Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, standing as though waiting for the next tra
in. Modo’s laughter echoed down the tunnel. He clapped his hand to his mouth.
Octavia pushed herself off of the statue. “I feel no pity for the rich fool who’d spend a fortune on statues to impress travelers, before even building the tracks.”
From the edge of the platform, Modo looked down the tunnel, and pictured traveling through it by train. If there was a fire, passengers would be trapped under tons of earth and rock.
They found steps leading down to the tracks and walked silently for a few minutes on the rails. The smooth rock floor became jagged. An ear-splitting scraping noise made them both shudder.
“Put out the light,” Octavia whispered between scrapes.
Modo clicked off the pocket lucifer and was able to see a dull light in the distance. They quietly walked toward it, scrambling over old railway ties that had never been laid. The light grew brighter, and it became clear that they were approaching an adjoining tunnel that crossed the one they were in, forming a T. Meanwhile, the tunnel in which they were walking had become so narrow that they had to follow one behind the other, with Modo in the lead. Now they could hear the hammering and squealing of machinery.
They stopped, staying in the shadows, and observed the set of tracks in the crossing tunnel. Three children slouched past them; they were small and hunched over, but well muscled. Ropes had been tied to the bolts in their shoulders and they were pulling a small trolley filled with metal bars along the rails. Two men in greatcoats guarded them.
“They’re using them as mules,” Octavia whispered.
“They seem to be building something,” Modo said as another cart passed. “The carts are full of metal bars and gears. And there’s coal, too.” In all, nine children passed them.
Modo tapped Octavia’s shoulder and pointed at two large dogs walking alongside the third cart. The nearest hound turned his massive head ever so slowly toward them and stopped. Modo held his breath. Then, the hound turned and walked further into the tunnel. The other followed. In a minute the tunnel was quiet again.