by Arthur Slade
So into the water he went, performing a rather spectacular dive from that height, if anyone had been watching. He was pleased that he had angled it well so he didn’t go too deep; he still had plenty of air in his lungs when he hit the surface. He flipped onto his back, floating in the darkness and staring back at the Rome. The two agents were standing at the railing, searching for him, backlit by the ship’s lights.
A good fight. It had been a long time since anyone had tested his skills so thoroughly. Modo had destroyed one of the birds with his bare hands, which Visser found particularly shocking. He’d been told the falcons were nearly indestructible. His masters wouldn’t be pleased that the technology was now in the hands of the enemy.
At least he hadn’t lost all of them. He made a short whistling sound and two falcons descended on him, one landing on each of his wrists, wrapping their metal-scaled toes around his arm and digging their talons into his skin. The salt water made the wounds burn. He winced only momentarily, then made a cluck cluck sound, and they flapped their wide wings and began pulling him toward his destination. He kept his head above the water. The birds weren’t powerful enough to raise him into the sky, but with their help he moved along with amazing speed.
Just a temporary setback. There were Dervish tribes near Cape Horn who sympathized with the Clockwork Guild. He would find them and receive his orders at the next port.
Visser had been employed by the Clockwork Guild for over ten years and had lost count of the men and women he had killed in its service. Each time he completed a mission he demanded something outlandish as part of his payment. A gold stiletto. A red ruby the size of his fist. He would have to think hard to surpass his last request: a human heart. They had brought him one. He didn’t ask whose heart it was, but it had tasted good with enough salt.
Perhaps he would ask for Modo’s heart. He laughed fiendishly as he sped through the dark water. The Guild had asked only for a sample of the changeling’s body. Would they really need his heart?
A Marvelous Piece of Workmanship
Mr. Socrates examined the ruined pieces of the clockwork falcon, amazed by the intricacy of the device. No, it was more than a device. There were actual blood and brains in the falcon, as though some living beast had been dipped in metal. But the thing seemed dead. He eyed a metal tube that ran from a container inside the bird’s chest to the middle talon of each foot. So that was how they loaded the poison.
It was disturbing how advanced the Clockwork Guild’s technology was—it gave them an advantage over the British. Mr. Socrates and his fellow Permanent Association members had been trying to discover their base now for months, to no avail. The Guild could strike whenever it wanted, could build whatever it wanted, and the Association still had to act within the confines of secrecy. They could not call on all the might of the British Empire without filling out far too many forms. It was leaving them behind.
Mr. Socrates was pleased—no, impressed—by Modo and Octavia’s work, though he gave no outward sign to either of them. Modo had uncovered the enemy agent, and both had subdued him without alerting anyone else on the ship.
The falconer’s disappearance was discovered when the steward went to make up his room the next morning. Everyone on board began gossiping about Mr. Carpenter, dreaming up theories about what could have happened. There was an unscheduled stop at the next port, where an inspector boarded the Rome and sniffed around. Because the captain was an old friend of Mr. Socrates, he took Mr. Socrates’ advice that it not be a long investigation. There were a few papers for the captain to fill out, but Mr. Carpenter wasn’t the first passenger to take it into his head to jump into the ocean. Soon the ship was on its way again.
Mr. Socrates stared out his porthole. The appearance of this enemy agent meant that the Guild wanted the map. So it was safe to assume they didn’t know exactly where the God Face was. And if Carpenter had been the only agent in pursuit, then Mr. Socrates had put even more space between him and his enemies. He was ahead in the game.
He picked up the falcon and turned a small key in a slot in the mechanical creature’s skull. The eyes blinked. It leaned forward, snapped its beak, and nearly caught his finger. He withdrew the key and the eyes went dead. Amazed, he shook his head. A marvelous piece of workmanship.
Manning an Expedition
Miss Hakkandottir stood at the prow of a large boat rowed by four soldiers in dark civilian clothing. Her steamship, the Kraken, was anchored out at sea disguised as a large transport. The twenty-one-pounder guns were hidden under canvas and more than a hundred Clockwork Guild soldiers were at the ready below deck. Everyone above deck was dressed as a civilian sailor. There was no point in alarming the Australian authorities at Port Douglas. As the men rowed, she pulled a large leather glove over her metal hand.
It had been a long journey from Atticus, the island at the center of the Guild’s operations. A few days earlier the Guild Master had summoned her to his crystal palace and told her to man an expedition to discover this temple. Visser had sent a telegram: he had been forced to abandon the mission. The Guild must get a step ahead of the Permanent Association.
They docked and Miss Hakkandottir climbed onto the pier. One man stayed with the boat while the other three followed her into Port Douglas. Not much to the place: several sturdy houses, a general store, a hotel with a pub, and a small church that had seen the bad end of too many storms.
She knew that the drunkard explorer Alexander King had discovered the legendary temple, then gone mad. Their agents had been able to gather that much before the Colonial inspectors handed King over to the British to be transported back to England in shackles. His insanity could be the result of jungle fever, or confirmation of the powerful artifact rumored to be hidden on the temple site. The fact that Mr. Socrates was following the map meant it was likely more than a rumor.
She deduced that King would have looked for his guides at the pub first, and that was where he would have hired Fred Land. Once Land had stolen the map from him, King would’ve had to rely on a different source of information.
Miss Hakkandottir walked past the pub to the edge of town, where the houses became shacks and the skin tone of the inhabitants was darker. An Indian man cutting a log with an ax paused to watch her pass. Chinese children chasing stray chickens pulled up short and stepped out of her way. Desperation and poverty were always useful.
A withered Chinese woman sat outside one of the shacks, stirring a pot of boiling cabbage. Her gray, stringy hair fell loose upon her shoulders and her clothing was a patchwork of rags. Miss Hakkandottir stopped in front of her; the woman didn’t look up.
“A white man hired guides or porters from here a year ago,” Miss Hakkandottir said in perfect Cantonese. She had learned it during her pirating days in Hong Kong. “They went into the jungle together. Are any of those men still here?”
The old woman looked up, one eye milky with cataracts. With her good eye she examined Miss Hakkandottir for several seconds. “I have no teeth.”
“A pity,” Miss Hakkandottir replied.
“I want teeth,” she said.
Miss Hakkandottir reached into her pocket and placed a silver coin in the woman’s outstretched hand. “This will be enough to buy wooden teeth.”
“Yes, yes,” the woman said. She pointed farther down the lane. “In the red hut is a bad-luck man who went with the white man into the jungle. His name is Zedong.”
“May you eat well,” Miss Hakkandottir said, and she stepped past the woman.
A dog growled, then fled as she approached the red hut, the burly soldiers at her back. She knocked; no answer. She pulled open the door, releasing a thick cloud of opium smoke. Three men were crouched around a patch of bare earth, placing mah-jongg tiles. At the sight of her, they stopped playing.
“I’m looking for Zedong,” Miss Hakkandottir said.
“That’s me.” A middle-aged man looked up at her. His thin dark hair was cut short. His eyes were pinched with lack of sleep.
“Did you guide Alexander King into the jungle?” she asked.
“I no longer guide.” He went back to arranging the tiles.
“That’s not what I asked.” She stepped in and kicked aside the tiles. “Your game is done. I asked you a question.”
“Go away,” Zedong said as he stood. He nodded at one companion, who drew a knife from his belt; the other stood holding an ax handle as a club. “We no longer traffic with foreigners. They are mad.”
The soldiers behind Miss Hakkandottir didn’t flinch or reach for their own weapons.
“You will traffic with me,” she said calmly. With her gloved hand she grabbed the knife blade by the sharp edge and snapped it in two, then kicked the man’s knee so hard he collapsed in pain. The second man swung his club and she deflected the blow, then crushed the man’s solar plexus. Both men writhed on the ground between her and Zedong.
“Please, come with us,” she said kindly. “We will take care of you and you will give us directions.”
Zedong dropped the tile he was holding. “You do make a compelling offer,” he said. “Besides, I was losing the game.”
Miss Hakkandottir laughed. At least he had a sense of humor; that would keep him alive longer. She turned, not bothering to see if he followed her out of the hut.
Slippery Fish and Carrion Birds
A week later, when Western Australia was sighted, Modo was one of the first passengers to run to the port side of the ship and stare over the railings at the sandy beaches and brushy landscape. He sighed—it was so good to see land again after days on the rough open sea. They had been traveling for over a month and a half, but now it would be less than a week before they reached Sydney.
Soon nearly every first-class passenger was lined up along the railing, holding down hats in the warm breeze. Octavia and Mrs. Finchley squeezed in beside Modo. They pointed at flocks of birds. When the birds circled a bit closer, he recognized them as buzzards.
“The water is such a bright blue,” Octavia said, “and the sand so white.”
Modo squinted. “White as salt.”
Mrs. Finchley was pressing so hard on her hat that it was losing its shape. “It looks uncivilized,” she pronounced. “I hope Sydney has more to offer than this!”
Modo had to agree. All that was visible were rocks, sand, and acres and acres of brush on flat dry land. No birds other than the buzzards. No kangaroos, creatures he’d been hoping to see since he was a child. No sign of human habitation. In fact, it was the most desolate patch of land Modo had ever seen. Even the sands along the Suez Canal and the Red Sea had some green growth, and numerous huts and villages.
Gradually, the passengers grew bored, wandering away.
“I have sewing to do,” Mrs. Finchley said with a sigh. “If all of Australia is this breezy, I’ll need chin straps for my hats. Mr. Reid, would you be so kind as to escort your cousin back to her cabin when she is finished sightseeing?”
“My pleasure,” Modo said, then corrected himself. “It would be my honor, in fact.”
Mrs. Finchley laughed and left them.
For a while Modo and Octavia watched the landscape pass by silently. It was the first time in weeks that they had been alone together.
“Australia is a hundred times larger than England,” Modo said, to break the silence.
“I’m aware of that, cousin,” Octavia said. “I’m not a complete dunderhead.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that you were.”
“I know. I know. I’m only frustrated. I’ve never been cooped up on a ship for so long. Our trip to New York was a lark compared to this.”
“I must say that I, too, am tired of the shipboard life, cousin,” Modo replied. He really didn’t like being her cousin. Then again, he reminded himself, cousins did marry in polite society.
He turned to her. “I’m proud, at least, that I haven’t yet fallen into the ocean.”
Octavia chuckled. He was pleased to see that mischievous light shine in her eyes at this reference to their last voyage. “Yes. Glad you’re not letting that become a habit.” She looked around. No one was near. “Modo, I …”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been ignoring you. I apologize for that.”
So it hadn’t been his imagination. “Well, you’ve had so many officers to talk to.”
“Jealous?”
“No,” Modo insisted.
“I’m only playing my part, Modo. A woman of my advanced age must find a husband before she becomes an old maid.” Modo smiled. Octavia was only seventeen at the most. “Besides, Mrs. Finchley has chaperoned every one of those conversations.”
“Then, why …?” Better to be blunt. “Why have you been ignoring me?”
“I—I will admit, Modo, that you are more than just a fellow agent. You are a friend. And … well, I’m … I’m just so curious about you. But you’re such a big secret … an enigma is the word Mrs. Finchley would use.”
“She called me an enigma?”
“No. But she has been teaching me some big words. Proper words. So many words I could scream, actually. In any case, I feel at times that I don’t really know who you are.”
“I’m your friend.”
“Yes. But who are you?”
What is the answer? he thought, once again confused by her. I am Modo. I’m just Modo. He felt like shouting it until all the passengers turned their heads to look at him. I am Modo! The one who spends countless hours in my cabin, hiding my ugly body, my terrifying face. I’m the one who lives in fear that Octavia might walk in and see me as I really am. I’m the one who’s always on guard.
This was all about his face. He knew it. She wanted to see it, and had wanted to for months now. She wanted to see his real face—but he would never be able to show it to her.
“I am whoever I want to be,” he finally said.
She nodded. “And that’s the problem. You’re a slippery fish.”
She was comparing him to a fish? Why did everything always come down to his appearance? Couldn’t she see who he was through his eyes? Had she learned nothing of his character after all they’d been through? Mr. Socrates saw his value as an agent. Mrs. Finchley saw his talent. But who would ever see his heart?
“I’m more than a fish, cousin,” Modo snapped.
“I didn’t mean to insult you.”
He sighed. “Allow me to escort you to your cabin. This fish is tired.”
A Journey Ends
As they rounded into the Heads—the cliffs that guarded the entrance to Port Jackson and the city of Sydney—Mr. Socrates rose from his table, pulled on his greatcoat, left the cabin, and marched to the forecastle of the ship. He was surprised at his own eagerness and that the aching in his bones seemed to be gone, despite the cool June wind. He’d been to Sydney more than twenty years earlier, during the first wave of the gold rush, and had hired a team of ex–military men as prospectors. Within six weeks he’d capped off his personal fortune. He’d had a soft spot for Australia ever since.
The spray was hitting the rocks so hard that it looked as though the lighthouse on South Head were in danger of being washed away, but as they entered the inland sea the water grew calmer. They passed a small village, cottages dotting the wooded hills. Paddle-wheeled steamboats, yachts with their white sails bright in the sun, and other craft plied the waterway. As they approached Sydney proper, there were more houses and roads. The city had grown. He noted the spires of several churches, rows of large houses with broad terraces and steps that led right down to the water. He spotted the signal station, a four-story sandstone tower, and the observatory beside it. Somewhere behind it would be the old Rum Hospital, which had become Sydney’s Parliament House. He had once stood inside that building warning the politicians to guard their young country well.
This was what he needed. To see what the young colonies were doing. He’d been sitting at the old heart of the Empire for far too long.
“We really are in the new world now,” an unfamiliar voice bes
ide him said.
He turned and was surprised to see Modo. His voice had sounded deeper. The boy’s face was perfectly formed; he really had mastered the transformations.
“Yes, son, we are,” Mr. Socrates said.
There was a lift in his heart, coupled with sadness, as he called Modo his son. His only real son had died moments after being born many years before. But still, Modo was more valuable than any other agent. Even more, there was something about the boy’s innocence that had got under his skin. If he was honest with himself, there were times when Mr. Socrates had wanted to shield Modo from the world. A foolish and unrealistic thought.
“This is one of the most attractive ports in the world,” Mr. Socrates said. “Picturesque, even. Its description stumped Anthony Trollope. Did you read his work before our visit?”
“There were very few books in our house that mentioned Australia, Father,” Modo said.
“Ah, I should have remedied that. We left too quickly to gather the proper educational materials. Well, this is a mariner’s and an engineer’s dream, so many natural bays with calm water. And gently sloped hills.”
“It’s more established than I thought it would be,” Modo said.
“We civilized this area years ago. The colonies have thrived under the nurturing hand of the Empire. Well, that and the gold rush. There are around two hundred thousand souls here in Sydney. We sent our ne’er-do-wells, our Scots and Irish, our explorers, and look what has been created by British ingenuity.” He waved his hand. As the boy looked at the city, Mr. Socrates glanced at him. At times Modo seemed to worship him. It was both a compliment and a bad habit. He would have to harden the boy’s heart. The world out there was tough, unforgiving, especially for one whose real face would frighten children and repulse adults. If there was one thing he knew about British society, it was that it loved to destroy the ugly. He would have to be more disciplined with the boy, for his own good.