Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) (20 page)

“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 will 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?

He poked his head farther around the rock and gasped. Along the back wall hung half-finished men who’d been stitched together. Tall, strong men, their eyes closed. A green fog gathered around them, a gas hissing from several pipes. Footman pulled Cook in front of him so he could see.

“Good Lord,” Cook whispered, “let’s get the seven hells out of here.”

They slowly worked their way back toward the trapdoor. As they crept along, Footman took a measure of the place. The glass building was at least a hundred feet tall and two thousand feet long. The logistics of transporting the materials
to create it were mind-boggling. The massive dock, with its cranes and airship tower, could resupply the largest of warships. The entire island slanted down toward the dock on the east side so that all armaments could be fired toward the enemy. The cliffs protected the operation from the west.

Cook led them around the central mountain of rocks. Just as they approached the trapdoor, he stopped. A huge man was sitting on a stone, staring up at the moon. He turned his gaze to Footman and Cook.

“I saw you climb out of this hole,” he said. His voice was ragged. “I waited for you to return.”

The monster was expressionless, as though his face had frozen. His eyes glimmered with moonlight, but not much else. Footman had never been superstitious, but standing here under the moon he believed he was looking at the undead. “You are intruders,” the thing said.

“Intruders?” Cook said. “We’re delivering coal, mate. That’s all. We’re lost.”

The man stood. It was like watching a stone statue move. “No. You are too clever to be one of the soldiers. They all drink of some pacifying tincture. And they wouldn’t say ‘mate.’ Therefore, you are from off-island and an enemy. If you run, the hounds will shred you to pieces. I haven’t told anyone you’re here. Just get past me and you’ll be free.”

“So it’s a game for you, is it?” Cook asked.

The man nodded. “A momentary entertainment.”

Cook gave Footman a glance and raised his eyebrows.

“Do not try—” Footman began when he saw the glint of daring in his friend’s eyes. Cook charged. He lowered his head and butted the man squarely in the chest, a move he
had used in perhaps a hundred brawls. The monster lifted him with a huge hand, flipped him over, and smashed him headfirst against a boulder.

He was clearly dead. Footman would never have dreamed a man as strong as Cook could be swatted down like a fly.

“You are smaller,” the creature said. “Perhaps not easier to kill. Please prove entertaining.”

Footman had a knife in his pant leg, but knew it would be useless. He reached inside his shirt and let out a small battle cry as he dashed toward his enemy. The man opened his arms as though to embrace him. At the last second, Footman flipped open the pocket-watch lucifer, blinding the giant. At the same time, he leapt to one side and tried to race past. But he wasn’t fast enough, and the monster struck him in the ribs, a glancing blow that threw Footman several feet. He rolled along the stones, which cut into his skin, but he leapt up, ignoring the pain. Trapdoor ahead! He measured the distance with his eyes.

The monster pursued him with a bull-like speed. No time to think. He’d be crushed. So he ran past the trapdoor, toward the sound of the crashing waves, the rocks under his feet slick from the mist. He glanced back to see the monster at his heels. His own death at his heels.

Footman ran straight off the edge of the cliffs and dove into the Pacific.

“I
’m not going to have to rescue you from drowning, am I?” Octavia asked. They were north of their camp, staring down the edge of a small cliff at a river below. There was a waterfall, and she would have thought it rather beautiful if she wasn’t dreading the next step.

This was their first day of what Mr. Socrates had suggested would be weeks of training. Working as a team, they were to cut their way through rough bush using a compass. A prize was waiting at the end of the “map” Mr. Socrates had given them. He hadn’t said what it would be.

“I’m a much better swimmer than I used to be,” Modo said. “Are you just worried about your hair?”

Hair? That was the last thing Octavia was concerned about. She’d tied it back with black ribbon to keep it out of her eyes and hadn’t worn a dress since her arrival two days
ago, only black military fatigues. A slimming color, she noted, making her look all the more boyish. Good! She wasn’t one of those overdressed plump ladies who spent their life lounging on velvet chairs. Her accessories were a utilitarian brown belt and a razor-sharp saber that Tharpa was teaching her how to use.

After a week on a boat and days on a train, it was glorious to be active again, even if it meant tramping through the bush. She preferred city streets, of course.

They had crawled, run, and cut their way to this location, only to find the river blocking their path. Going around it might take days, and the idea of spending the night out here didn’t appeal to her.

“One of us should see if it’s deep enough,” she said. “I nominate you.”

“Ladies first,” he said.

“But you’re the gentleman.”

“You’re more a gentleman than me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” It was the closest thing to a joke she’d heard from Modo in weeks. “Ah, Modo, if I stick around you’re going to talk me to death.” With that she stood, began to run, and jumped into the air, aiming close to the waterfall. She hoped the water had carved a deep enough well that she wouldn’t break her legs! It must be all right—after all, Mr. Socrates wouldn’t have sent them here unless it was possible. Halfway down she wondered if she’d made a mistake; maybe they were supposed to use their rope to cross.

The water was shockingly cold and she sank much deeper than she’d expected to; at any moment her legs would strike the bottom and snap like twigs. Instead, she came to a stop
and began kicking, climbing for the surface, and was soon splashing in the open water.

“It’s toasty warm,” she shouted, then swam for the opposite shore, as Modo, doing his best impression of a cannonball, struck the water nearby; not the smoothest dive she’d seen. But Modo had only recently learned how to swim.

“You splash around like a mad dog,” she said. “You’ll scare the beavers, the ducks, and the whatnot for miles around.” She had taken to swimming in the Thames when she was a street child, but had never enjoyed taking a bath. It wasn’t until she’d become an agent and had her first hot bath that she understood why the aristocrats spent half their lives in bathhouses.

“At least I can float.” His wet netting mask clung to his face, showing his deformities and making him look like a sea monster. Despite wishing it could be otherwise, she still shuddered. But she had sworn to herself that she wouldn’t show any weakness.

They climbed onto the bank.

“The compass still works,” he said.

They made their way up the ravine, following the coordinates Mr. Socrates had provided. Soon they were tramping through the bush again.

“Maybe that was our toughest test,” she said.

“Not so loud,” Modo replied, “you’re snapping every twig.”

“I’m going to snap you.” But he was right. She could move quietly in the street, but in the forest she wasn’t certain where to step. Modo, on the other hand, moved as though born in the forest. He was a peasant’s son, after all. Maybe that was it.

“What do you think the point of all this is?” Octavia asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe Mr. Socrates just wants us out of his hair. He— Wait …” Modo grabbed her shoulder and yanked her back a step. He pointed at the ground. “A trap.” He lifted a leafy branch. Below it was a hole.

“How did you see that?”

“Fresh leaves on the forest floor alerted me.”

“Since when did you become Robin Hood?” she asked.

“Are you Maid Marian?”

“No. I’m always Richard the Lionheart. But I see Mr. Socrates doesn’t want this to be just a gallivant around the forest. At least there aren’t as many insects and snakes here as in Australia.”

They took another compass reading and Modo checked his watch. “We’re about an hour behind,” he said. “We’ve maybe traveled two miles.”

It was the first time they’d been alone in two days, so Octavia decided to bring up a question she’d wanted to ask the day before. “I’m curious, Modo,” she began, “how do you feel about the dragoons?”

He shrugged. “I don’t completely trust Mr. Socrates’ motives. I can’t help wondering if there was something else that could have been done besides turning them into soldiers.”

“I talked to Ester. She’s very happy with her position; says she was made for it, in fact! And she’s eager to stick a poker in the eye of the rotters who tortured her.”

“But they’ve been turned into weapons. Again. Oppie wanted to read and become a detective. That’s all he wanted when I met him.”

“Do you think Mr. Socrates gave them more of the potion?” Saying it made Octavia go cold. The birds seemed to grow quiet. Modo was taking a long time to answer.

“No,” he said finally. “I—I think he’s made some hard choices for Queen and Country, but he wouldn’t do that.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because if he had, he’d have kept every one of the children, not just a dozen of them. Can you imagine fifty dragoons?”

She didn’t want to point out that maybe there were other bases where dragoons were being trained. No, she told herself, Mr. Socrates sometimes had a chunk of ice for a heart, but he wouldn’t go that far.

“The dragoons want to hit back at the Clockwork Guild, I have no doubt of that,” Modo said. “And they seem to be mature enough to make their own decisions. And … Wait.” He stopped next to a tree. “I hear something. It’s like—”

Men in gray uniforms thudded from the trees around them.