Island of Doom

by Arthur Slade

  40

  Applauding the Designer

  By the time Oppie and the other dragoons had crested the top of the cliffs, there were only eleven of them and a small team of regular soldiers. The noise of their ascent had been covered by the gun battle on the beaches, but now the guns had stopped firing.

  “Form ranks!” Sergeant Beatty commanded, and they split into two groups. At that moment Oppie knew for certain that Edmund had been the one who’d drowned, as he’d always been on Oppie’s left in their squadron. A horrible way to go. He’d miss Edmund; they’d played with toys together in those first months at a place called Ravenscroft. Later, when they’d been shipped to Esquimalt, they’d played with guns and axes.

  “Squadron A, take the point! Full speed!” Beatty commanded. Ester’s squadron chugged forward, the dragoons’ mechanized arms and legs hissing. Oppie was in the second group of five, bringing up the rear. He pushed all thoughts of Edmund from his mind.

  This was what he had trained for! The crimes of Oppie’s enemies had grown and festered in his heart since the day they’d kidnapped him as a boy. How he had been longing for this moment and now that it was here, oddly, he found himself thinking of his mother. Her face loomed before him.

  Such thoughts would only cloud his mind. He banished them.

  “Squadron B! Forward! March!” Oppie’s troop pounded down the path toward the beach, hundreds of yards away. The beach was lit in such a way that he could clearly see a redheaded woman waving her arms, directing the Guild soldiers. Miss Hakkandottir! He had seen her when he was a child. Her face was burned in his memory.

  Silencing the massive field guns was their first objective. Ester’s troop had almost reached them. The Guild soldiers tried to hold their position, but their lines were split in two by the giant dragoons.

  His squadron began their charge, but Oppie slowed as they passed the glowing mouth of a cave. Inside, an old man with stringy, long white hair was watching the unfolding battle. Ah, yes, Dr. Hyde.

  “Sergeant Beatty!” Oppie yelled, but he was at the rear of the squadron and his sergeant was out of earshot. Oppie brought himself to a stop, motors burning, steam hissing, his chest heaving, as there was more than a little exertion required on his part to keep his armor in motion. One of his squadron’s objectives was to capture the doctor. He’d do his best not to kill him in the process.

  The doctor was much smaller and older than Oppie remembered. He’d been a child when this man had forced his tinctures on him. He didn’t give his fellow soldiers a backward glance; they would be able to take the beach.

  Dr. Hyde met his gaze and then his eyes took in the spectacle of Oppie’s armor. “You are beautiful,” the old man said. “You are so very beautiful.”

  It had been a lifetime since this man had administered the potion and promised Oppie he’d become something extraordinary. “You don’t recognize me?” he said, flipping back a section of armor protecting his shoulder.

  The doctor looked at the bolt that protruded from Oppie’s shoulder. “Your bolt. Shoulder bolts! I … remember … you are mine.”

  “Yes,” Oppie said. “I am yours. Your creation. And I have come for you.”

  One blow and he could crush the old sawbones into pieces. How easy and satisfying—destroy the old man as he had destroyed Oppie. But his orders had been to capture, not kill.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  “Young man,” replied Dr. Hyde, “I cannot leave my work. It is the most important work of all. And it is very nearly done.”

  “I have orders. I must follow them.”

  He grabbed the doctor’s shoulder with his iron hand, which moved as though it were his real hand. He had worked so hard to perfect it, had practiced picking up eggs without breaking them. The doctor looked at Oppie’s metal hand, examining all the gears. “Marvelous work,” he said. “I can see how it can be improved, but still I applaud your designer.”

  “You’ll meet him soon enough.”

  “I cannot leave. My creations wait for me. They are close to life. It has been so very good to see you again.”

  “You will—”

  Then, without warning, Oppie found himself flying to the side, the doctor slipping from his hand. He rolled, the armor protecting him from breaking his back on the stones. He stood, pistons whining, and turned to face his enemy.

  A massive man stood before him as the doctor limped slowly back into the cave.

  “My master requested your departure,” Typhon grunted. They had been warned about this man too. But he was larger than Oppie had imagined—nearly as big as Oppie. His skin had a mottled greenish pallor that seemed to glow in the moonlight. Their orders had been to destroy him.

  Oppie unsnapped the ax from his back and charged.

  41

  One More Die to Cast

  The Guild Master watched from the observation deck of the Crystal Palace. He heard the sirens first, tearing him away from his work with telegrams and calculations. He strode to the eastern windows, where much of the island was visible to him, and looked down. There was a light in Dr. Hyde’s cave. Flares filled the air around the docks. And the gunners were firing at targets—boats—in the dark ocean. Then a great explosion, then a second, a third. The destruction of the observation tower and the crashing of the flaming airship into the ground had been particularly bothersome. The metal shell had protected it from rifle fire but not from an explosion of that magnitude. A design flaw?

  Defending from a raid had not been a major part of his calculations. There was only a small chance they’d ever find him, so he’d only dug a few trenches and put up barricades. This was a well planned attack. How had they discovered the island? There was that one small Triton ship that had been stolen. He had assumed the thieves had fled with it. Maybe not.

  No matter, the enemy was here, had hunted down his Guild. No need for panic. It wasn’t as though this scenario hadn’t occurred to him. It was part of the risk. He just hadn’t foreseen the metal juggernaut soldiers that were currently routing his own troops. Had the British advanced so much in such a short time?

  Ah, but they had come at a time when his forces were weaker. He’d lost so many men when the Wyvern had gone down. They had recruited more, but they weren’t yet as well trained.

  What was Britain’s ambition? Kill or capture?

  How to make either more difficult was the question. He had often thought of himself as a tortoise, slowly making his plans for the world. What did a tortoise do when attacked? Withdraw into itself.

  He would be the tortoise, and he had one more die to cast.

  42

  Cauldron Boils

  Octavia watched Modo throw his useless revolver at Lime. The man ducked and gave them another broad smile as he clashed his knives together.

  “ ‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son!’ ” Lime taunted. “ ‘The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!’ ”

  “ ‘Jabberwocky’?” Modo said, drawing his own knife. “Quoting poetry at me?”

  If that was poetry, Octavia wanted no part of it. Modo’s knife was much smaller than Lime’s, and, though Modo was strong, he hadn’t grown up in Seven Dials to fine-tune his knife-fighting technique. Octavia drew her saber, brushed by Modo, and rushed Lime. When he raised his knives, intent on slicing her from gullet to belly, she dropped to the floor and blocked them both with her own blade in a move Tharpa had taught her. She struck Lime directly in the knee with her foot.

  He let out a shout and tripped backward, and she gave him another good kick. He reached for her foot but too late, and he was upended into one of the boiling cauldrons. It was almost comical, except that something very strange happened. He let out a muffled scream as he seemed to be pulled into the cauldron, the hot, smelly pink substance wrapping around him. He kicked his legs.

  “I suppose we should drag him out,” Modo said. They yanked on his boots, now still, and he was surprisingly light as they pulled him to the floor.

  “My Lord!” squeaked
Octavia.

  All that remained of Lime was a skeleton, which quickly fell to pieces. His metal teeth rattled across the rocks toward Modo, who booted them away.

  “Acid,” Octavia said, taking a few steps back. The sight of Lime’s bones was enough to make Octavia want to vomit. The acid sloshed around on the floor, as though it had a mind of its own.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Modo said.

  They ran into the lift. Modo pressed a button and they rose thirty or forty feet, passing other tunnels. Octavia caught a glimpse of more crates and containers. “Should we stop?” she asked, but Modo shook his head.

  “To the top. Dr. Hyde’s cave must be above us somewhere.”

  With a clunk they reached the highest floor. It was made of smooth stone that led down a long tunnel to the south. It gradually grew wider and opened into three tunnels.

  “Ah, Modo, we are cursed by tunnels.”

  “At least it’s not London’s sewers, eh?”

  They took the middle tunnel, and for the first time found themselves at an actual door. The lock was no problem for Modo. He simply pulled on it hard and it snapped. Octavia had always been impressed by his strength.

  Beyond the door the room was brightly lit by several gas lamps hung from the ceiling. A small bench sat just inside the entrance. Modo stopped in the center of the room, putting his hands on a wall of glass. A step later, Octavia saw what had captured his attention.

  “Mother,” he said softly.

  43

  A Horrible Whistling

  It took all of Oppie’s concentration to deflect blow after powerful blow. His countless hours of training, of swinging clubs and fists against the other dragoons, made each move natural. But how could his monstrous opponent, who was just flesh and blood, unleash such staggering hits? Oppie had even used an ax to deflect Typhon, but the handle broke in half like a toothpick.

  The sun was rising, its light showing how ugly his opponent was. He punched Typhon in the temple, a wallop that would have taken off another man’s head, but the monster didn’t even blink.

  “You are a worthy combatant,” Typhon said.

  “Such fancy words.” Oppie had wanted to say something clever, but failed. He struggled, pushing his body and his mechanical armor to its limit. His anger made him stronger.

  He landed a kick in the center of Typhon’s chest, knocking him into a barricade strewn with wires. It broke into pieces. The creature was up again in a heartbeat, smiling lopsidedly. “Very impressive.”

  Typhon lifted a stray beam and swung, taking Oppie out at the legs. As the dragoon pushed himself onto his knees, Typhon hit his head. Oppie’s helmet broke in two and flew off, exposing his skull.

  The monster was toying with him! But Oppie rose up, shoving the beast ten yards back. There was a great boom in the distance.

  “Let’s have at it, as they say,” Typhon grunted.

  A horrible whistling began to fill Oppie’s ears. He thought Typhon’s punch had done something to his hearing, but the screeching grew louder. Even Typhon paused.

  Then a shell landed several feet away, blasting Oppie against a bin, which collapsed and dumped coal on him. Could he drown in coal? He was suffocating under the weight of it. He kicked and dug his way to the surface, coughing up dust and chunks of coal. The world was completely silent. This time he knew his ears had been damaged.

  He got to his feet, his armor-plated legs steady, his vision clouded with smoke. As it cleared, he saw Typhon lying on his back. Oppie limped over to him. The monster was fully intact, despite how close he had been to the shell blast. He wore a peaceful expression, though he looked quite dead.

  A small movement caught Oppie’s eye. The strangest thing: the monster’s little finger was curling and uncurling, as if inviting Oppie to come closer.

  44

  Shelling at Sunrise

  Mr. Socrates stood on the deck of the HMS Shah and watched through his spyglass. Darkness and smoke made it hard to make sense of the morning’s events, but he’d known early on that the explosive boats and the feint for the beaches had worked. The three perfectly timed explosions had caught the enemy unaware and brought down the dock and the observation tower. He had been particularly happy to see the airship burst into a satisfactory series of flames. It had lit up the beach, making the assault that much easier to observe.

  They’d been able to rescue two of the three soldiers who had piloted the dummy boats and set the charges. The third might still be somewhere in the water.

  The official sunrise was half past six, but a full hour earlier the sky grew light enough that their targets became visible, so they began pressing them with fire.

  The dragoons drove the Guild soldiers back. It was like watching Titans battle humans. Then they had ripped the firing pins from the enemy’s field guns, so the HMS Shah was now safe from the long-range guns and the beaches were open for the third phase of the attack.

  He counted. He had lost three of the dragoons. From this distance it was impossible to tell which ones, only that two lay immobile on the beaches. Perhaps they were not past medical attention.

  At Mr. Socrates’ command the ship’s guns began to fire again, smashing the trenches where the enemy was trapped. Then, satisfied that the volley of shells had weakened their targets, he and Tharpa climbed down a rope ladder and led a flotilla of electric boats jammed with marines and sailors toward the shore.

  Five minutes later he was striding up the beach toward the front line.

  45

  Bed of Stone

  Modo’s mother lay on a stone bed covered with a thin mattress. Her red hair had been combed, but clumps had fallen out. She was gaunt and her skin so unnaturally pale that her veins made a spiderweb pattern across her arms and neck. Her forearms were freckled with needle marks. Clearly they had been stealing from her, blood and perhaps more. She was not a beautiful woman, and Modo found himself surprised by that. He had imagined her to be handsome, though he, of all people, should not have expected to have an attractive mother.

  The quartz that separated them was clear as glass. He pounded on it, slamming his fists again and again. She stirred but didn’t awaken.

  “We must get her out of there!” he shouted, and pounded even harder.

  “Yes. Yes,” Octavia said. “Calm down. There must be another way.”

  “Yes, there must be. We …” His voice trailed off. His mother had opened her eyes and was looking at him for the first time since she and his father had left him at Notre Dame. Of course, there was no sign of recognition on her face—after all, he was wearing a mask—but surely she must realize that he and Octavia were not part of the Guild.

  The woman blinked, looking drowsy.

  “We’re here to take you home,” Modo said in French. He had no idea if she could hear him. “We are friends.”

  She didn’t speak. What incredible pain had she already endured? What torture at the hands of this horrid Guild? He placed his open palm against the quartz, a sign of peace. Of love, perhaps.

  Then a section of the floor inside her chamber slid aside. A nearly bald man rose up through the hole on a lift. He paused, not quite startled, and stared at Modo and Octavia. He rubbed his chin for a moment.

  “Dr. Hyde,” Octavia said.

  He was only a few inches taller than Modo. The doctor examined him through the glass without any hint of fear. Then he nodded, turned, and lifted Modo’s mother from the slab of stone.

  “Where are you taking her?” Modo shouted. “Where?”

  The man didn’t respond as he carried her to the lift, then disappeared through the floor, leaving the room empty.

  Modo slammed his fists against the quartz.

  “Come,” Octavia said, pulling him back toward the door, “we’ll find another way.”

  A bullet struck the wall and the room echoed with the shot. A Guild soldier blocked the doorway, pulling back the hammer on his rifle. Modo lifted the wood bench and threw it, knocking him to the floor with su
ch force that he didn’t get up again.

  “Let’s go!” Modo said, leading Octavia through the door. “We will find her. We will!”

  46

  The Power Vested in Me

  When the barrage arrived, Miss Hakkandottir watched it cut through her ranks and she screamed with rage as the Guild soldiers scattered. The tincture that had been used to bind them also weakened their brains, sometimes in unpredictable ways. Despite the training, they were now like mice fleeing from some discovered hidey-hole.

  “Form ranks!” she shouted, to no avail. She instructed Grace to herd the soldiers like cattle, so the dog snapped at their heels. “Form ranks!”

  Miss Hakkandottir began to chase them and pull them into formation, smacking several with her metal hand. The moment she let one go, he ran. Panic set in. She didn’t have time to execute each and every one of them.

  A hasty retreat was her only option. She leapt from the trench and ran from the oncoming enemy, Grace at her heels. Wagons and barricades had been blown to pieces by the attack, and the farther she went, the thicker the smoke. Guns fired behind her, a good sign; she was at least going in the right direction.

  She jumped over a dead horse and landed in an open crater. It had been created by a shell that had blasted everything away when it landed. Something large was moving in front of her, and when the wind blew the smoke away, she saw one of the giant metal soldiers looking down at the body of Typhon.

  He had bested Typhon! The man’s helmet was off, and she was shocked to see his face, so childlike on the body of an adult, enclosed in a giant metal hornet. Seeing her, he raised his head.