Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) (22 page)

“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.”

O
ctavia 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 considered 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.

E
arly-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.

“Yes,” Modo said, trying to sound as confident as possible.

“How can you be certain?”

“I guess you won’t get to tell me that I was wrong.” He let out a forced laugh.

“I feel as though I’ve known you my whole life, Modo,” Octavia whispered. “Somehow I was meant to know you. We are supposed to be standing here together, right now. Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know. Fate is … it’s not rational.”

“Well, feelings aren’t rational. So what! It’s a feeling I
happen to have. That I was meant to know you. To be your friend.”

“Friend?” he asked.

“We are more than friends, Modo. You know what I mean.”

No, he didn’t, actually. Once again she was speaking in riddles. He looked away from her. “Don’t talk as if we’re about to die. It’s bad luck.”

“You don’t believe in luck, Modo.”

“I don’t. Nor do I want to think about our deaths or about life beyond tomorrow. I want to think only about our duty.”

“And what is our duty? To Queen and Country?”

“To Colette’s memory. To my mother. To put an end to this Guild once and for all.”

Her hand tightened on his. “But what’s the point if we don’t succeed?”

“We have to.”

The engine rumbled, then stopped, but the
Shah
was still moving. The masts creaked above them.

“We’ve switched to sails,” Modo said. He took a deep breath in an effort to calm his now racing heart.

“We are closing in on our destination,” Mr. Socrates said from behind them. Modo quickly released Octavia’s hand. “Come and receive your orders.”

They followed him to a cabin, passing the dragoons, who were getting into their armor with the help of the Association soldiers. The soldiers looked like black ants scurrying around wasps.

It was a small cabin lit by a single lamp. The porthole
was covered with black cloth. “Quick, the door,” Mr. Socrates said. Modo shut it.

Their master handed them two maps: one of the island, the other of a series of tunnels. “Memorize these,” he said. After they had both studied the images he took the maps back. “You two will have tasks that best suit your skill sets,” he explained, pointing at the tunnel map. “While the dragoons attack you’ll be entering the sea cave. By my calculations the tides will be at a sufficiently low level by four a.m., an hour from now. If possible, you’ll first free Madame Hébert. Given how valuable she is to the Guild’s experiments, my best guess is that she’s in the cave near the center of the island. Hand her over to the protection of the Association soldiers.”

“And what’s the other assignment?” Modo asked.

“To capture the master of the Guild. It will be a tricky job, since a full-out battle will be under way.”

“Assuming we can find him, that is.”

“Assuming he’s a man,” Octavia pointed out. “He could be a woman.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Socrates said, “but doubtful. If it’s unworkable for you to take him prisoner, then I expect you to eliminate him.”