by Arthur Slade
“Oppie, it’s me,” Modo said, then nearly smacked himself for being such a dunderhead. Modo had been wearing a mask the only time they’d met face to face, after the Association had brought down the Clockwork Guild’s giant constructed of children. Before that, Modo had rented a room at the Red Boar and Oppie had brought his meals to his door. Modo had not wanted to show his face, so he had entertained the boy by reading to him through the keyhole. What name had he been using back then? Ah, yes! “It’s Mr. Wellington,” Modo said. “I’m Mr. Wellington! But my real name is Modo.”
The man was silent, measuring. “I’ve never seen your face before, sir.”
“I wouldn’t pull your leg, Oppie. You brought me pork buttons and ale every night. Don’t you remember?”
“I think I recognize your voice. It’s a pleasure to see you, sir.”
His lower-class accent was gone. He’d changed so very much in such a short time.
“I—I don’t understand …,” Modo said to Mr. Socrates.
“Oppie is a dragoon now,” he said. “You may return to your duties, Trooper Entwistle.”
“Thank you, sir.” With a clanking of gears, he saluted, clicked his helmet into place, then strode smoothly away, his metal suit hissing. His back was protected by several plates.
“We added to the Guild design,” Mr. Socrates explained, “stealing the pattern from their giant. We also dredged up Fuhr’s body from the Thames. There wasn’t much left of his flesh after the fish had had their way, but his coal-fired arms and legs were intact—a true marvel.”
“It really is astonishing,” Modo said.
“The dragoons can travel absolutely silently for short periods using their electric batteries. But once their steam engines are fired up they can burst through brick walls or scale the highest cliffs. They are bolted to the structure using the shoulder bolts Dr. Hyde had already inserted into the children. We had to extend them again, of course.”
“You extended the bolts?” Modo echoed. “I thought you’d found a way to cut them off.”
“For the others we did, but not the dragoons. It was the only logical thing to do.”
“Good Lord,” Octavia said, “is that Ester?” One of the cavalry soldiers had removed her helmet to reveal short red hair. Octavia had known one of the children in the Clockwork Guild’s giant too.
“Yes,” Mr. Socrates said. “Lance Corporal Ester McGravin.”
“I thought you were going to return them to their parents!” Modo said.
“We did.” Mr. Socrates leaned on his walking stick. “At least, to those parents we could find. And when we couldn’t find parents, some of the children became robust enough that they could work on farms in Canada or Australia. They are doing well. Others died within a few months. Failed livers and such. We discovered the causes through autopsies. There were fifty-seven children who made up the giant. Twelve of them were altered permanently by the tincture they’d been given and could not adapt to civilian life.”
Modo watched the dragoons march in formation, their metal feet shaking the ground.
“Altered in what way?” Octavia asked.
“It accelerated their growth and their aging. Each of those soldiers is over six feet tall. They’re all aging before their time. A week is the equivalent of a month for them.”
“So how long before they die of old age?” Modo asked.
Mr. Socrates sighed. “We don’t know. They also have some deep behavioral problems. They are unpredictable and possibly dangerous. Oppie, for example, twice attacked his mother. They need constant supervision and extremely focused goals. It became clear that only the Association could care for Oppie and the others.”
“This is caring for them?” Modo asked. “You’ve turned them into—into war machines!”
“I don’t like your tone, Modo. Each of them chose to come here.”
“How long have they been at this camp?” Octavia asked.
“Eight months. We couldn’t keep them in England; there are too many prying eyes and squeamish hearts. And this is absolutely top-secret. Even those soldiers in Esquimalt are not allowed on this base.”
“And why are you showing them to us?” Modo asked.
“Because they will strike the blow that shatters the Clockwork Guild.”
Of course. So Mr. Socrates did have a plan. But what a plan! Modo’s mind could not believe what his eyes were seeing.
Mr. Socrates led them back to the tents. Had the child soldiers stayed here through the winter? Modo wondered. The tents contained little more than cots and a brazier. He could only imagine how harsh the winters would be here; it seemed almost cruel. As cruel as Ravenscroft.
“These will be our lodgings for the remainder of October and likely November, too,” Mr. Socrates said, pointing at four separate tents.
“We’re going to just sit here?” Modo demanded.
“Do you have a better suggestion?” Mr. Socrates asked. “Shall we jump on a raft and paddle off in search of the Clockwork Guild? Have you any idea exactly how big the Pacific is?”
“You said you aren’t certain that they’re even in the Pacific.”
Mr. Socrates grabbed Modo by his lapels and pulled him into a tent.
“Your insubordination is becoming rather tiring,” he said quietly. “I did not raise you to be a thorn in my side.”
“Mrs. Finchley raised me.”
“Modo.” There was sadness in his master’s eyes. “I am not your father. I know you want to find your mother, and perhaps you seek to avenge that French girl’s death. But believe me, anger only leads to rash decisions. I learned that the hard way. Allow me to do my job and you will be able to do yours.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Socrates let go of Modo’s lapels. “And, Modo, don’t feel you have to hide your face here. The soldiers have been prepared. No one will stare at you. You are to feel at home and conserve your energy. Very soon we will be going to war.”
32
A Statue Stands
Several weeks earlier Footman and Cook had crossed the United States by train and taken a steamship to Hong Kong. There the real work had begun. It’d taken several bribes and days of scouting before they discovered the entrance to the secret shipyard along China’s coast on the Yellow Sea. And now they sat on the green mountainside above it, squirreled away behind a cypress tree, drinking cold tea and eating hardtack and dried rice. Footman surveyed the scene below with a spyglass, his eyes still unbelieving.
It was a massive shipyard in a perfectly protected cove. Hundreds of workers, mostly European, were laboring with hammers, hauling coal, or tending to various other duties while heavy cranes moved giant beams of steel and metal plates into position. It was ingeniously hidden; from the ocean it was almost impossible to spot the entrance because of the way it fit into the folds of the mountains. Moreover, the Guild had disguised the access with a wooden flotilla that looked like rocks from a distance.
There were at least a thousand men working on a multitude of projects. Three enormous warships were in various states of construction: the Hydra, the Gorgon, and the Medusa. The first two were nearly ready to launch; the third looked like the skeleton of a giant whale that had been beached. It was months, if not a good year, away from completion. Footman couldn’t help watching in wonder as smaller boats raced at impossible speeds through the waters.
“Stunning ain’t it, mate.” Cook chewed a dried plum. “A whopping big operation. You see the little boats? Tritons, they’re called. I’ve never seen anything go that fast on the water.”
“Yes, they are impressive.”
“They take them out in groups of two, but they’re going straight out into the Pacific. Not hugging the shore. Wherever those little ships go, that’s where our mutual enemy resides.”
“So we must steal a boat,” Footman said. “And follow them.”
“I like the way you think, Footman. The question is how?”
“I have a plan.”
“I’m
all ears,” Cook said.
Footman led him back toward the entrance to the bay. It was guarded by sentries in an old pagoda-style tower that perhaps had once been home to monks. It took Footman and Cook two hours to make their way down there. The door to the pagoda was closed, and Footman had no idea how many soldiers would be inside.
“I go, you wait,” he said. “You’re clumsy.”
“All too true, Footie. Just shout if you need help.”
Footman stole through a line of shrubs and up to the door. It was unlocked. So they weren’t expecting an attacker. He opened the door slowly and crept up the stone stairs. The lookout guards were at the top, and judging by their voices, there were at least two. Soldiers, even the well-trained ones, could not always be focused after hours of staring and waiting. And it was very likely that no one had ever trespassed here. Footman padded to the top floor and peeked in the door. One soldier was staring over the water. The second played solitaire on a table.
He struck the first in the temple with his palm; the second received a kick to the side of the skull. They both fell, unconscious.
“Shall I come up now?” Cook asked from the bottom of the pagoda.
“Yes.”
Cook was not exactly quiet coming up the stairs, and he clapped his hands when he saw Footman’s handiwork. “Bravo! Wasn’t sure if you needed my help or not. They sounded like a bit of trouble.”
“No trouble.” Footman had already undressed the shorter man and was pulling on the soldier’s gray uniform.
Cook changed too, and then they waited, briefly debating how long the shifts might be. First one hour passed, then another. “Cards?” Cook asked. Footman shook his head.
“What’s your real name?” Cook said.
“Footman,” he answered.
“No, your Chinese one. Singsongy, innit?”
“I am Footman; that is all.”
“Funny thing, Footie. My real name’s Cook. Albert Cook. And I became a cook. Destiny, eh?”
Footman shrugged. “Names are never who you are.”
Soon after he’d arrived in London, he noticed that the higher class in England often called their servants by their occupation, not their name, so he took the name Footman. Mr. Socrates had not disagreed, for they knew others would make assumptions about him if that was his name. Assumptions could always be used against the people who made them.
Footman had worked for Mr. Socrates for more than twenty years. He’d first met his employer in Shanghai and had been hired at the age of eighteen. Then his name had been Gong Le, and he’d trained under the Shaolin masters, warrior monks. He’d completed his years of chi kung, of long runs and armed and unarmed combat, by carrying a red-hot cauldron down a long alley, balancing the great pot on his forearms. Seals on the cauldron burned a tiger on one arm and a dragon on the other. They still sat there, symbols of his time, his training and beliefs. He had wanted to see the world, so he turned his back on the monks. Mr. Socrates opened up the world for him.
Footman jumped to attention when two of the boats sped toward the exit of the bay. Earlier, they’d seen the lookout soldiers run out and open a section of the camouflaged flotilla, so Footman and Cook knew they should do that too. They scurried down and let the first boat pass. It was large enough for ten men and was steered using a round wheel with two handholds. Triton XII was painted on its side.
When the second boat arrived, Cook put out his hand and signaled: stop. The boat, Triton XIII, pulled up to the small dock. There were two Guild soldiers inside, both wearing goggles.
“You want me to handle them?” Cook whispered. Footman nodded.
“What are you stopping us for?” the driver asked.
“Paperwork,” Cook said. “Got it right here.” He stepped onto the boat and gave the first soldier a punch to the skull that dropped him. The second swung, making contact with Cook’s shoulder, then he was knocked out by Cook’s left hand. He stripped the men of their goggles, then casually tossed their bodies onto the dock. “That was a little sloppy,” Cook admitted. “But we haven’t all been trained in a Shaolin temple, now have we?”
Footman shrugged and jumped onboard.
“I’ll take the wheel,” Cook said. He needed a few moments of experimentation to familiarize himself with the controls of the boat and then they were out on the water, keeping the first boat within sight. Their speed was amazing. It seemed faster than a train as it jumped over each wave. They put on the goggles to protect their eyes from the spray.
Footman pointed at the pack of food and bottles of water. There were several boxes of coal next to the firebox, but the coal had been compressed and, he guessed, would last a long time.
“They were expecting a long trip,” Cook said. “Not certain I like taking such a small craft out on such a great big ocean, good as its engine is, but I guess we have no choice.”
“We don’t,” Footman agreed.
Cook spun the wheel like he’d piloted the boat his whole life.
As the sun set, the lead boat drew farther and farther ahead until it was out of sight. They kept a straight course, following the compass next to the wheel.
“We’ll keep following these bearings,” Cook said. “They were going straight, and there’s enough coal and food for a few days.”
They had a wireless telegraph, but since there were no telegraph cables in the Pacific, it was useless. The only way to get a message to their master would be to take it to him themselves. They had received one last communication giving them coordinates for where they could flee to, if necessary.
After four hours of traveling in the dark, a slight glow appeared on the horizon and grew brighter. “There she be, mate,” Cook said. In another half hour they were close enough to see an island with a large central building that appeared to be made of glass. Footman had seen the Crystal Palace in London and recognized this replica. Cook slowed the engine.
“We know the coordinates of the enemy now,” Footman said. “We should leave.”
“We could take a closer look,” Cook answered. “This boat’s got an anchor. How’s your swimming these days?”
“I swim well,” Footman said, “but I think we should get back to Mr. Socrates.”
“I’m the senior officer.”
“Leadership was not delineated.”
“Delineated?” Cook laughed. “Where’d you learn such fancy words?”
Cook pushed the anchor over the side, tied his shoes together, hung them around his neck, and jumped into the water. Footman sighed. Cook had been in the house for the past five years; perhaps he had grown tired of boiling carrots for Mr. Socrates. He knew that the boat wouldn’t be easy to find, so Footman followed him moments later.
He easily caught up with Cook and passed him. The island had a beach and docks that were well lit and well guarded, so they swam around to the north, where rocky crags grew out of the water. They swam for half an hour. The cold water was beginning to get into Footman’s bones, but the tiger and the dragon on his arms would keep him warm. Cook was huffing and puffing; he should have been training more often.
Footman led Cook to a protruding rock and they clung to it to rest. The tide was at its lowest, the moon bright, showing that the rock walls were almost as smooth as glass. Perhaps they’d been blasted to make them so smooth. They would be impossible to climb with bare hands.
“Looks like we’ll have to go back to the boat,” Cook said. “Too bad.”
“Wait!” Footman pointed at a dark spot on the wall. “I think there is a cave over there.”
They swam several yards until they were just below the mouth of the cave, then climbed up and into it. They had to crouch and crawl to make their way inside. It had been pure luck that they’d seen it, Footman realized. An hour later and the tide would have covered the entrance. He turned on his pocket-watch lucifer and followed the cave thirty or so feet into the island. It gradually sloped up, where it became drier. In time they came upon a man-made tunnel.
“We w
ill not be able to leave this way when the tide rises,” Footman said, wringing the last of the salt water from his shirttails.
“Then let’s not dillydally, mate.” Cook was shaking with cold.
Footman climbed a ladder to another tunnel, which led to several more tunnels. They chose one, and with each step it stank more of decay, and of vinegar.
But they continued to work their way toward the surface, covering their noses with their hands. At the end of one tunnel Cook found a trapdoor and pushed it up. “Land ho,” he whispered, poking his head up. Then, after a quick glance around, he crawled out. Footman followed, and they both sucked in fresh air, suppressing coughs. What was that stench?
They were near the cliffs, looking down the island at a massive dock, a line of cannons pointed to the sea. “They are sixteen-pounders at least,” Cook said. “Twelve of them. It would take an armada to storm this place.”
The glass building at the center of the island glowed red, as though it were a living thing. Soldiers were walking to and fro in front of the gates, several of them pulling wagons filled with wood and brick. Even in the dead of night there was work to be done.
Footman spotted several huge hounds and guessed that these were the half-mechanical hounds Mr. Socrates had spoken about. One sniff of his or Cook’s scent and the hounds would be on them, but the breeze was working in their favor and they were far enough away to be safe.
“Quite the setup,” Cook whispered. “Guns, hounds, I’ve counted at least a hundred soldiers. If that’s the night shift, then it must be like an anthill when the sun rises.”
“You talk too much,” Footman said.
“I’ll keep me smackers closed.”
As they explored the island they stayed close to the huge rocks, and were hidden by the surrounding shrubbery. They were about to step around a large rock formation when Footman noticed there was a cave mouth that emitted light. He put his arm back to stop Cook, and peeked around the edge. Not far away, a white-haired man stood at a table, his back to Footman, measuring liquids into several flasks.
Footman knew immediately that this was Dr. Hyde; he’d been briefed on all the enemies that they might encounter. The doctor stood next to a long operating table. And was that an arm lying on it? And a torso? What horror was this?