Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) (25 page)

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.

M
odo’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 such force that he didn’t get up again.

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

W
hen 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.

“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.

M
r. 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.

I
t 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.