by Arthur Slade
“You,” he said. “I know you! I remember you!” He pointed his metal finger at her as though he’d caught a mischievous child. “Miss Hakkandottir, by the power vested in me, I declare you under arrest!”
It was the oddest thing she’d heard all day. The boy-thing actually recognized her and he was … arresting her? She laughed, almost uncontrollably, then drew her pistol and fired. The bullet ricocheted off his shoulder. She fired again. Another ricochet. “Put down your weapon!” he commanded. He lumbered toward her, gaining speed.
“Get him, Grace,” she hissed. Her hound leapt, but he swatted the dog aside with his metal arm.
“Grace!” Miss Hakkandottir screamed, but the hound hit the rocky ground hard and didn’t move again. She nearly charged the soldier but drew up short. There was only one way out. She fled. Straight for the Crystal Palace.
47
A Game Well Played
Mr. Socrates watched from the beach with a sense of pleasure and confidence as the HMS Shah sent a barrage of shells toward the Crystal Palace. The first phase had unfolded with relative ease. And the second phase had gone equally well. The ship’s doctor had assured him that the two wounded dragoons would live, but five Association soldiers and three marines were dead. In exchange the enemy forces had been scattered and a collection of prisoners had been taken on a boat back to the HMS Shah for questioning. The enemy’s guns and airships had been destroyed. Typhon, the odd, monstrous creature, was dead; Mr. Socrates had inspected the corpse himself. Impressive, that one. He had not seen Modo and Octavia yet, but he was convinced they’d soon emerge from the tunnels.
The only detail that irked him was the Crystal Palace itself. From a distance it had looked like one shot from the Shah’s nine-inch muzzle-loaders would shatter it, but apparently not. So it couldn’t be glass. It was some sort of impenetrable material, thick enough to withstand their heaviest guns. Through his spyglass he could see that they’d succeeded in breaking off a few chips, but it appeared structurally sound. An astounding architectural feat!
They had scored one direct hit at the top of the building, shearing off the airship landing tower. At least they could be sure their enemies wouldn’t be fleeing that way.
In short order his snipers silenced the last of the rifle fire. Now the enemy could only retreat to the palace. They’d be trapped in their shell.
How to bust the shell open was the problem. He hadn’t counted on a siege. He had enough supplies for a week, but there might be months of supplies stored away inside those walls. A siege would require that he get a message back to Esquimalt. It would be weeks before reinforcements arrived.
He raised his hand, sending a signal to one of his lieutenants, who in turn made a sign to a flagman on the beach, who waved cease fire. The Shah’s guns fell silent.
Mr. Socrates stepped out from his cover. Only a gifted marksman could hit him at this distance from the palace; it was worth the risk. He raised his speaking trumpet and shouted, “Clockwork Guild agents! It would be best for all concerned if you were to surrender now.”
The Crystal Palace was quiet. The quartz was clear, but he couldn’t actually see inside. Tharpa stood a few yards behind him, his rifle trained on possible sniper nests.
“It would be best for all concerned if you surrendered,” a woman answered, using an even louder speaking trumpet. There was no way to detect her actual location, other than the general direction of the palace. He knew her voice, of course. Miss Hakkandottir. He’d hoped a shell or a bullet had removed her from this earth, but, alas, no such luck.
“Ah, Ingrid, how lovely to hear your voice again.” His trumpet made him feel as though he could blow their walls down by merely speaking. “Your Swedish accent is a joy to my ears.”
“Ha! Intelligence has failed you. This is what comes of mediocre agents,” she retorted. “I’m Icelandic.”
He was amused. Had his sources actually been so far off? “Are we to settle this with swords again?” he asked.
“It would be less than gentlemanly of me to duel with such a doddering old fool.”
“Enough!” he snapped. “I will address your master.”
“I am the master of all you see,” she replied.
“No,” Mr. Socrates said. “You’re not capable of such visionary thinking. Send him out. Ingrid, I’m growing tired of this charade. It’s such a lovely palace—do not force us to destroy it and all who remain inside.”
He expected her to shout a defiant answer, or take a shot at him. Instead, a male voice whispered into the speaking trumpet.
“You have done well, Alan Reeve. I salute you. A clever plan executed with great precision.”
“With whom am I speaking?”
“You may call me Prometheus.” His tone was flat. Disinterested. He’d named himself after a Titan. Was the man mad? Of course, Mr. Socrates had himself taken on a last name of distinction, but that was only to hide his past. This man, on the other hand, might well believe himself to be a Titan.
“Well, Prometheus, I also salute you. Let us chat, shall we? Face to face, over tea and sweet biscuits. On the deck of my ship.”
“I have analyzed our situation and there is no other choice for us but surrender. It was a game well played. I shall open the gates for you conquering heroes.”
Immediately, the main doors at the front of the palace began to slide apart. The dragoons raised their elephant guns, the soldiers and marines raised their rifles. It was still dark inside the palace, but something large was sliding out.
“It is an offering of surrender,” the invisible speaker said, a smile now in his voice.
About a dozen Guild soldiers were heaving against a giant wooden crate, rolling it across wooden poles toward them. What odd sort of gesture was this? How was this a surrender? It slowly descended the paved road from the palace. The crate had air holes and was so large that it could easily contain at least twenty horses.
Horses! The Trojan horse! “Fire! Fire at the crate!” he commanded, and his men obeyed. The Guild soldiers stopped and fled back into the palace, and the gates slammed shut after them.
The box collapsed, revealing five monstrous hulking men, eyes dead. They were much larger than Typhon, and they had been redesigned more than Mr. Socrates had dreamed possible. One had four arms; another had large horns; a third had ten-foot-long tentacles. The final creature was part metal and part human, plate armor fastened like scales to his flesh. His arms were clearly steam-powered, ending in huge crablike claws. The machines of war, the cannons and Maxim guns that tore men apart, were civilized compared with these creatures. Their appearance shook him to the core.
There was something else. A small wave of silver was running across the ground in front of the monsters. Mr. Socrates squinted. Metal spiders.
He retreated behind their barricade and took stock of his soldiers. The helmeted dragoons were hard to read, but helmetless Trooper Entwistle was staring, wide-eyed. The Association soldiers and the marines fired automatically, but Mr. Socrates knew they had to be unnerved. They’d faced cavalry charges and cannon fire, but none had seen an enemy as terrible as this. It was too late to call down a barrage; it would hit his own men too. That could only be a final option. One of the flagmen ran screaming onto the beach and into the water.
Mr. Socrates thought of Sun Tzu and his Art of War: He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot will be victorious. Was it time to flee? They could be off this beach and back in the boats in minutes, leaving only a few to cover their retreat. Those men would die, undoubtedly. No. They had not sacrificed this much only to be driven back. This was what the Guild had created, what they ultimately wanted to unleash upon Britain. Their new ships would make the invasion possible, by carrying these beasts across the Pacific.
Sun Tzu had also said: Look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death. “Hold your positions,” Mr. Socrates commanded. “I’m right here, men. Standing beside you.”
The monsters
began lumbering toward them, but first, a hundred little spiders scurried over the lip of the Association’s trenches, and up the soldiers’ arms. Most shook them off, but one marine screamed after being bitten, then fell over. After a few short convulsions he was dead. Poison! The other soldiers were quick to smash at the spiders with the butts of their guns, but one ran up a dragoon’s leg, found flesh, and the dragoon fell over, waving his arms and thrashing around.
Four sailors fled into the water. Mr. Socrates couldn’t blame them. They might have held their position if they’d been on a ship, but not here, faced with something so outside their understanding. He too felt an overpowering revulsion at the melding of human and animal parts, sewn through with metal and gears.
It took a full minute of stomping and crushing to kill the spiders. By then the monstrous squadron was nearly upon them. The elephant guns only slowed the beasts down; nothing could stop them. And they wouldn’t die. They just would not die.
They were already dead.
48
A Timely Burst of Anger
It was clear to Octavia that they were very lost. They’d climbed back down into the tunnels hoping to find the route Dr. Hyde had taken, but the tunnels underneath the cave went off in every direction, except back toward anything that might be below the quartz prison room. And the longer it took, the more intensely she could feel Modo’s growing anger.
When he slammed his fist into a beam she said, “You are a trained agent. Calm yourself!” Part of her wanted to laugh; she sounded just like old Mr. Socrates. But Modo was becoming unhinged with rage.
“I am calm!” Modo spat, but when they came upon three white-coated men, he chased them down and began throwing them around. It was like watching a hound tear into cornered rabbits.
“Stop!” she shouted. Within seconds the men were all unconscious.
“Take a moment and think!” Octavia said, pushing Modo into a corner. “We could’ve questioned them.”
“What am I doing?” He looked at his fists. “How do we find Hyde?”
“Maybe these tunnels don’t join up with any routes below the cave. We could go back to the surface and look for another entrance.”
“But I’m certain we’re close!” He pulled out his compass and stared at it. “This is west. The tunnel led west. We must be right next to it.” He jammed the compass back into his pocket and slammed his fists against the wall. “No!” he said, bashing at it again and again. He had lost all discipline.
Octavia grabbed him by his shoulder and hissed, “Modo! Modo! We’re doing the best that we can,” as earth and stone fell around them. “Getting all brutish won’t help.”
“I’m sorry, Tavia. I’m just so tired of holding back. All these thoughts running around in my head.” He let out what might have been a sob or a sigh and slumped against the wall.
There was a rumble and crack, then a rush of damp dirt as the stone wall collapsed under his weight. He fell right through it, onto his side, but Octavia jumped over him and through the hole, her hand on her saber. Bright light burned her eyes. They were in a hallway lined with marble walls. The ceiling and floors were marble too. It was lit by electric lights and, thankfully, was deserted.
“Ah! See? It pays to get really angry once in a while!” Modo stood up and began jogging down the hall, Octavia a few feet behind him. She checked her compass. They were traveling toward the palace, were already beneath it, perhaps.
In a few minutes the marble walls turned to wooden panels covered with, of all things, paintings: pastoral scenes incorporating mythological heroes and monsters. One was of a man tied to a rock. Another of a giant holding up the world. A third depicted a man clenching the severed head of a woman with snakes for hair.
The next chamber was populated with an army of bronze and marble statues: men were throwing disks, sitting on thrones, holding spears, while women grasped vases or children, or fixed their hair. Most were naked. If Octavia hadn’t grown up in Seven Dials she might have blushed.
Modo rushed up to a wide door covered with ornate carvings.
“Don’t just yank it open!” she whispered.
He peeked through the keyhole. “Another hallway,” he said. “No sign of— Uh-oh—hide.”
The door slowly began to swing open.
49
How Hannibal Was Defeated
Mr. Socrates was nearly out of bullets as the monstrous brigade advanced. They now stood in the midst of his front line. The marines and Association soldiers were reduced to swinging sabers and stabbing with bayonets. It was like pricking giants with pins.
The creatures sent soldiers flying, kicked aside marines, and were able to topple five of the dragoons. Those dragoons who kept their feet exchanged blows with the monsters but were only half as strong.
Mr. Socrates dropped his rifle and drew his pistol, but it wasn’t long before it was empty. Not one monster had fallen. All his manpower wasted!
He reloaded his pistol, leaned around a barricade, and fired at the armored monster. The bullets ricocheted off. It was becoming difficult to suppress his fear and revulsion. What had Hyde done? And how did the little peasant woman, Modo’s mother, fit into it? Or Modo’s finger, for that matter?
There was a great crash and he saw that the armored monster had cut the barricade in half with his metal claws. Mr. Socrates looked for Tharpa among the slain as he fired his last bullet and unsheathed his saber. No retreat! No, not before these mindless creatures! If this was the end, so be it. He’d go down fighting, like a true Briton.
“Come on,” he snarled, “I’ve got British steel for your innards!”
Another monster came at him from the side, swinging a club, but something else knocked Mr. Socrates down just before the blow landed. He hit the ground hard, his vision blurred. He raised his head, blinking, colors swirling around him. But what was that? Music? He squinted hard, shook his head until he could see.
And there stood Tharpa, alone, in front of the creatures and blowing a trumpet like a madman. He had taken it from one of the sergeants. The Indian had gone barmy.
The monstrosities covered their ears, glaring at Tharpa as he advanced, step by step. One let out an odd yelp of pain and fled, diving into the water. It was followed by another, then another, until all of them had stampeded into the water and disappeared below the waves. Mr. Socrates waited for them to rise again, saw a massive waving hand break the surface, then fall. There was thrashing in the water for a few seconds, then nothing.
Mr. Socrates ran to Tharpa and clapped him on the back. “My man, my man, you’re brilliant!” The surviving soldiers cheered. Tharpa beamed.
“It was you, sahib, who once told me the story of how Hannibal and his great elephant army were defeated by Roman trumpeters who let out one big blast of sound. It was worth a try.”
“Indeed it was! Though you were horribly out of tune. Perhaps trumpet lessons are in order.”
“It may be best to be out of tune, master. Britain has yet to explore horrific noise as a weapon. Perhaps the right frequencies will be more effective than one hundred guns!”
“I will take that under consideration, my friend,” Mr. Socrates said, thumping Tharpa on the back again. Then he rallied what remained of his army and turned to the Crystal Palace. It was silent and, he was quite certain, now undefended.
50
To Fight Again Another Day
“It is finished,” the Guild Master said.
Miss Hakkandottir looked down from the observation deck and nodded. “Yes, I am afraid the battle is lost.”
“Ah, but not the war. Like the phoenix, we will rise again,” her master said. “One must know when to retreat. It will take a few years, but I can see my mistakes and I will correct them. Madagascar will be a good home. I have land there for this very eventuality.”
“Yes, our future plans are important, but we don’t have much time to discuss them right now, sir,” she said.
He took one last look around at the smoking ruins of t
he observation deck. “You are right, Miss Hakkandottir. I put myself in your capable hands.”
She led him to the elevator and they took it down to the basement floor. There, waiting for them, was Dr. Hyde, and three of Miss Hakkandottir’s most trusted Guild officers, one of them carrying a limp Madame Hébert. Miss Hakkandottir was tempted to suggest leaving Madame Hébert behind, dead, of course—Modo finding the body would have been a nice blow to her enemies—but she knew that the old woman’s chemistry was far too valuable.
She armed herself with one of the officer’s pistols, loosened her sword in its scabbard, and led them down the hall. It would take Mr. Socrates and his men at least an hour to break into the palace. By that time they would have boarded the Triton boat waiting in an underground cave and would be well on the way to Madagascar.
At the end of the first hall she opened a wide door, urging them on into the great room that the Guild Master used for meditation; he called it his temple. All she could see were some useless statues. Why had he wasted money on these when he could have bought more armaments?
A birdlike chirp stopped her. She couldn’t place where it was coming from, but she knew it was actually human. She signaled the officers, who raised their rifles. “Who is there?” she demanded. The forest of statues did not answer.
Another chirp, this time to her left. She spun, her pistol at the ready. “Show yourself!”
One of the officers fired, chipping the ear off a statue. The report of the gun nearly deafened her. “What was it?”
“Someone moved over there.”
“Don’t shoot until you have a target.”
“Please don’t harm the statues,” the Guild Master pleaded, looking rather pathetic. Miss Hakkandottir nearly cuffed him.
Then a statue fell over on the opposite side of the room.