Island of Doom

by Arthur Slade

  “I—I will, Sergeant,” she promised between gritted teeth.

  “Are you injured?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” She nodded down toward her right arm.

  He delicately removed a steel plate and they could clearly see that her arm was broken.

  “It’s not so bad, Lance Corporal,” Sergeant Beatty said. “We’ll fix you up. Now get on your feet, unless your legs are hurt.”

  “They aren’t, Sergeant.” She slowly stood. Everyone took a few steps back as she wobbled on her feet.

  “Report to Blighty tent. Sawbones will put you back together.”

  She lumbered away, carrying her helmet in the crook of her good arm.

  “Form ranks!” the sergeant shouted, nearly rupturing Modo’s eardrums. “Resume your positions!”

  Modo ran back up the hill to Octavia. “Will Ester be all right?” she asked.

  Modo nodded. “She’s certainly tough as nails.”

  He and Octavia watched the drill for another hour until lunch was served. Modo was famished. He made his way to the mess tent; it was already crowded with the enormous dragoons, each with special sections cut out of their uniforms for their shoulder bolts. They were talking jovially. Even Ester was already at a table, a metal brace on her arm. Modo wondered if the tincture made them more immune to pain. Did they heal faster too?

  He stood in line and received the same gray food they’d had for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Modo took a seat beside Oppie.

  “Mr. W,” he said. “Pleasure to have your company.”

  “Please, just Modo. I don’t have a surname.”

  “One name is all you need?” Oppie was eating the food quickly. “You travel light.”

  “I guess you could say that.” Modo’s eyes strayed to Oppie’s nearest shoulder bolt. He tried not to stare at it.

  “I’ve learned to read, a bit,” Oppie said. “I remember you telling me to learn. Sergeant Beatty reads to us at night. He teaches us the words.”

  “He sounds like a good man. What do you read?”

  “Oh, I can’t read much on me—my own,” he admitted. “Just fairy tales and some of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.”

  “Good!” Modo rubbed his hands together. “I love that book!” And then he began to quote: “ ‘I almost wish I hadn’t gone down that rabbit hole—and yet—and yet—it’s rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what can have happened to me! When I used to read fairy tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one!’ ” Modo laughed, a little embarrassed for having let his performance get away from him.

  “Yes, that’s it!” Oppie said, excited. “You know it by heart!”

  “Just that speech and a few others. I’m extremely fond of the book.”

  “Sergeant Beatty will be reading the last chapter to us tonight. It’s good for us to learn to read. It helps with tactics and the manuals they give us.”

  Modo creased an eyebrow. They were being read to like children at bedtime, then trained to kill in the morning. They really had gone down the rabbit hole. “How do you feel about your training?” he asked quietly. “About being here?”

  Oppie’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a good place. I love being part of the Seventh Dragoons. We’re the Lucky Sevens! They feed us. And if I get a chance to strike back at the Guild I’ll be happy.”

  “Is that all this is about?” Modo asked.

  Oppie turned to look at him. His eyes were fierce. It was hard for Modo to remember the child Oppie had been only a year earlier.

  “Have you had your flesh cut into, your childhood plucked out?” Oppie asked. Modo nearly answered that he had. “Where else do I go? The army has given me a home, companions, and a purpose. I’ll destroy the ones who created me. Destroy them.” He jabbed the fork in the table. A few dragoons glanced their way.

  Perhaps Oppie hadn’t completely grown up, Modo thought. “Did you ever see your parents again?”

  “Yes.” At this, Oppie’s eyes grew gentle again. “My dad died. My mum, she tried to care for me, but she didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t ‘Little Oppie’ anymore. I broke things. And outgrew my clothes so quickly. She was given money.”

  “Money?”

  “Yes. For her to live and to look after my sister, or my brother, I don’t know which the stork brought.”

  “I see,” Modo said. “Was she paid for her silence?”

  “Paid to tell others I’d run away. Paid to compensate for the loss of my wages. I understand. Me being here keeps my family in bread and a roof over their heads.” He looked down at Modo. “Your questions … bother me. You think I’m the boy that you once knew. I am. But I’m not. I have grown up. I’ve found a place where I belong.”

  “I’m happy for you, Oppie,” Modo said. Was that the truth?

  It was complicated. Part of Modo felt that what these children had been twisted into was horrible. And yet, without these monstrous men, there was no chance of defeating the Clockwork Guild, not to mention rescuing his mother.

  My mother, Modo thought. My. Mother.

  Perhaps he too had gone down the rabbit hole.

  35

  A Peculiar Boat

  with Peculiar Cargo

  It was a dark, cold, and stupid night, according to Sergeant Booker. Stupid, he thought, because he had lost his day patrol shift in a card game and was now in the observation tower on Macaulay Point, swinging the port light back and forth across the empty waters, shivering and staring out at the Pacific. The perfect, natural harbor of Esquimalt stretched before him.

  It wasn’t like anyone would attack the home base of the British Navy’s Pacific Fleet. They had enough six-pounder guns to ward off the Russians, if they had a fleet worth considering. And the Chinese were in Stone Age junks. Laughable, really. In any case, Britain already controlled the Chinese. The Americans, now, they might make noise. He had been face to face with the Americans during the San Juan Islands Pig War, but they hadn’t shown any sign of aggression for twenty years now.

  It began to spit rain, so it was now a useless, stupid, wet night. No one would be entering their harbor tonight.

  Which was why he was stunned to see a motored boat enter the bay and begin to circle in the open water. It was a type of craft he hadn’t seen before—there was no captain at the helm! Booker rang the warning bell and seven marines appeared within a minute.

  “Glouster, you take the light. Keep it on the boat,” he commanded. “The rest of you come with me. Let’s see who our visitor is.”

  They climbed into a rowboat and Booker stood at the stern as four marines rowed and two pointed their rifles at the target. The mysterious boat circled slower and slower and the motor gurgled as though it would die at any moment.

  “Ahoy, there!” Booker shouted. “Stop your engines! Ahoy!”

  The craft continued on. It took some hard rowing, but they were soon able to pull up to it, close enough to jump. Booker was the first over. The fumes were strong, thanks to the coal that burned in the smallest steam engine he’d ever seen.

  Lying across the bottom of the boat was a Chinese man, clearly dehydrated, his breathing labored. He opened his eyes and said, “T-take me sock rates.”

  “What?” Booker said. “Speak English, man! What was that?”

  “Mr. Socrates,” the man said. “Take me to him. I am his footman.”

  36

  Element of Surprise

  Octavia awoke and looked at the clock in her tent. A quarter of six exactly. After two days of heavy training her muscles ached. Tonight she would turn in her ticket and take her bath, an hour of heaven that would keep her going through another day of saber fights, body throws, calisthenics, and long runs.

  A soldier stepped into her tent without knocking. “Report to Mr. Socrates’ tent at zero six hundred hours.” He turned and marched out.

  “Good morning to you too, bufflehead,” she said. It wasn’t shocking to have him enter unannounced. She was consider
ed a regular member of the Association forces and the soldiers knocked only if a tent belonged to a commissioned officer, so she’d learned to dress quickly. She’d been sleeping in her uniform for the past few days, to save time. She dropped to the ground and did twenty-five push-ups, and when she was done her brain was fully awake. All the hand-to-hand combat training with Tharpa had sharpened her skills; several times she’d taken down Association soldiers, to their great surprise and embarrassment.

  “I’m a real prizefighter,” she told herself. “A slasher, no less.”

  At a minute before 0600 hours she crossed to her master’s tent. It was four times the size of her own and bright with oil lamps. Mr. Socrates sat at a table, maps spread out across it. Tharpa was there too, with Modo sitting across from him in his own Association uniform and his black mask. Anticipation shone in his eyes.

  Then she recognized the man sitting beside Mr. Socrates: Footman! She had only ever seen him answering the door or serving food at the many Association safe houses, but here he was at Camp Cobra! All this time that he’d been fetching tea and answering the door, he’d actually been one of Mr. Socrates’ agents. Footman’s arm was in a sling, his face was bruised, and he looked like he hadn’t eaten for days. Tharpa set a cup of tea in front of him.

  “So, last to the table, Octavia,” Mr. Socrates said.

  “Fashionably late, sir,” she said. “It’s a woman’s prerogative.”

  “But not a soldier’s. Please have a seat.” He waited until she had done so. “As you can see, Footman has returned. He’s brought valuable intelligence about the Clockwork Guild. He and Cook even managed to steal one of their Triton boats.”

  So Cook was an agent too? How could someone so good with pastry and beef also be an agent? What next? Mrs. Finchley proclaimed as the true master of the Permanent Association? “Where is Cook?” Octavia asked.

  “He’s dead,” Mr. Socrates said matter-of-factly. “We’ll get to the events that led to his death in a moment.”

  Octavia felt her chest tighten and she exchanged glances with Modo. With his mask on it was hard to read his reaction. She had been so fond of Cook.

  “Footman has provided us with the exact location of the Clockwork Guild’s island.” Mr. Socrates tapped the center of a map with his finger, indicating what looked like open water in the Pacific. Octavia noted that it was northwest of Hawaii, the only islands she recognized on the map. “They’ve been hiding there all this time, building up their armaments. They have even assembled a replica of the Crystal Palace and use it as the center of their operations.”

  “Why the Crystal Palace?” Modo asked. “They hate all things British.”

  “There must be some symbolic message for us in that choice, but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we’ve discovered that the Guild is very close to completing three massive warships, even larger than the Wyvern. With those ships manned and armed, the Guild would become very difficult to defeat. Footman also discovered that they are working on what I can only describe as a horrible cadaver project; our fears about another Typhon were correct. Please tell them what you saw.”

  Footman nodded. “Bodies. We discovered a laboratory with many bodies. And Dr. Hyde was sewing them together.”

  “You mean dissecting them, don’t you?” Modo asked.

  “No. Reconstructing them. Later on we had to fight one of those dead men. He killed Cook and broke my ribs and arm.”

  “What Footman is describing is an encounter with Typhon or another creature,” Mr. Socrates said. “They have either animated the dead or are using new tinctures to make the living act with all the feeling of the dead. Neither Footman nor Cook could injure their opponent. The Clockwork Guild’s science in this realm is well beyond our own. If they’re creating more Typhons, that would be a powerful advantage in any battle. Imagine ten Typhons leading an infantry charge.” He let this image sink in. “Remember, Modo, what his name means? Typhon was the father of all monsters in Greek mythology. This is a message to us from the Guild.”

  Mr. Socrates stopped to sip his tea. His hand was steady as he set the cup down. Octavia thought he even looked younger—he loved this part of his life! “We must strike now, before those ships arrive.” He looked around the table, gauging everyone’s reaction. Octavia remained solemn and unreadable. She liked sneaking in and out of houses or alleys, but full-force attacks on enemy islands were not on her list of enjoyable activities.

  “Footman’s keen eye has taken a measure of their island,” Mr. Socrates said. “During the night I designed a map with details of their defenses.” He unfolded a small map, drawn in ink. It looked rather messy to Octavia. “Here is the palace. Below it, the port, well guarded by guns. There is an observation tower, here, along with an airship dock. Tall cliffs on the three other sides of the island make it unassailable from those directions. But Footman discovered water caves in the cliffs that took them to the surface. They may even lead into the fortress.”

  “The dragoons are too big for the tunnels,” Footman pointed out.

  “Yes. They’re designed for a frontal assault. The number of guns will make that a very difficult task.”

  “With the full strength of the British Navy behind us,” Modo said, “it shouldn’t be so difficult.”

  “We’ll not have the full force of the navy,” Mr. Socrates said. “We are a small but elite force. And we’ll have the element of surprise on our side.”

  “I do hope that we’ll have more than surprise,” Octavia said. “Maybe a few howitzers. Just a suggestion.”

  “We’ll have plenty enough military muscle,” Mr. Socrates said. “Trust me when I say that a full-frontal assault with the navy would require months of planning, requisition forms, and convincing certain implacable admirals. Ah, if only Lord Nelson were still with us. There was a man who could make quick decisions.” He paused and pointed at the map. “If we strike now we can destroy them with one blow. If we wait they could get wind of our plans, pack up their island, and slither away.”

  “But what is the plan?” Modo asked.

  “It will be unveiled the night of the invasion. Until then, only I will know what it is.”

  “And when will the invasion begin?” Octavia asked.

  “We leave tomorrow night.”

  So soon! she wanted to shout. How could they possibly organize troops and armaments and supplies?

  She looked at Modo to see how he was taking all this. His eyes glittered with excitement.

  37

  Aboard the HMS Shah

  Early-morning fog stretched its tendrils across the docks of Esquimalt, seemed to reach right inside Modo, through his clothes, under his mask, making him shiver. He and Octavia were the last in line to board the HMS Shah. Ahead of them on the gangplank were the twelve dragoons in their green uniforms, their hair cut short, kit bags hanging from their arms. They were led by their sergeant and followed by twenty Association soldiers, bayoneted rifles slung across their backs. Not a bugle nor a drum was heard. In fact, the base seemed deserted. Everyone but the necessary seamen and soldiers had been ordered to their quarters. It was, after all, a secret mission.

  Mr. Socrates was on deck beside the captain, watching the arrival of his troops. The armored suits were being hauled up by crane and placed on the deck under the instruction of Tharpa. And there were marines already onboard, lined up to silently welcome their comrades-in-arms. Modo guessed that Mr. Socrates needed some extra muscle and marksmanship. Several marines looked stunned at the size of the dragoons.

  “There are fifty of us,” Octavia said.

  Modo counted quickly. “You’re right. Plus the sailors, of course. Fifty against, what? Three hundred Guild soldiers? How many mechanical hounds?”

  “Ten at least,” she said. “And there’s Typhon, and it sounds like there are more creatures just like him.”

  “They’ll have airships and Triton boats. Imagine those with cannons.”

  “It’s quite a list. Are you nervous?�
� Octavia asked.

  “No,” he lied, “I’m eager.” That was the truth. He desperately wanted to get there. His mother could be long dead by now; Colette and his father certainly were. He must strike back at the Guild, rescue his mother. And if it was too late, exact revenge.

  They were given officers’ cabins. The HMS Shah began to shudder, a whale awaking from slumber, as they unpacked.

  They traveled without stopping, four days and nights of steaming southwest, the air growing hotter and more humid, so that by the third day Modo wished he were dressed in tropical khaki, not the damnably hot black uniform.

  They trained on the deck every day, soldiers running back and forth, doing their best to march and drill, and three times a day they ate the gray gruel. And still Mr. Socrates gave no hint of his plans. Modo began to wonder if there was any sort of strategy at all, other than a full-frontal assault. How many of them would live through that?

  On the fourth evening a command was shouted along the deck and lights were put out. Not even a cigarette could be seen. All was silent, except for the clanking and creaking of the ship. The thudding of the steam engines far below echoed like war drums.

  Modo met Octavia at the bow, and they stood staring into the dark. The breeze was cooling, and he wished he could lift his mask to feel it full upon his face. It was far warmer than London at this time of year. Several sailors were manning the guns. He braced himself for flares, cannon fire, and explosions to light up the sky.

  But nothing happened, and an hour passed with him and Octavia staring forward at the dark ocean and their dubious future. At some point he realized she was holding his hand. He didn’t remember when she had taken it, but he held tight and wished for this moment to never end.

  “Do you think we’ll still be alive tomorrow?” she asked quietly, with more seriousness than he’d ever heard in her voice.