Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) (27 page)

M
odo pursued the man up to the highest room in the tower. It was a mess: telegraph machines smashed by the blow of the
Shah
’s guns, shattered glass and burning paper littered the floor. The west wall was in ruins, one section blasted open. This odd man had to be important, might even be the Guild Master. Why else would he have been with Hakkandottir? Did he still have a trick up his sleeve? A means of escape? A hot-air balloon, perhaps? Nothing was impossible, but if a balloon had been tethered to the broken landing post, it was gone now.

“There’s no way out of here,” Modo said, facing him.

The breeze was warm, rustling and separating the burning papers. The man stood at the far side of the room, blinking as though what was happening was beyond his comprehension.

“So, you are Modo,” he said, coming out of his trance.

“Yes.”

“A very curious, determined creature.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I’m afraid I miscalculated. I failed to foresee this outcome. Plato would be ashamed.”

“Who’s Plato?”

The man cocked his head. “A philosopher.”

“I know, I know. I thought you were using a code name.”

He heard a noise behind him. Modo turned to see Mr. Socrates, Tharpa, and several Association soldiers enter the room.

“Your master comes.” To Mr. Socrates he said, “A well-played hand.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “Would you do me the courtesy of stating your name?”

“I am no one,” the man said. “Prometheus one day. Midas the next. Yes, that would be a good name for me. A foolish king who could make everything turn to gold but could never eat.”

“Come now, the game is done,” Mr. Socrates said. “I know a little about you, at least. You were once the Dragon Master of the Red Fish Triad, weren’t you? Or should I say 489?”

The man nodded and grinned. So this
was
the Guild Master! Modo shook his head at the thought. This little bespectacled fellow?

“Marvelous! I didn’t imagine you or your allies got that close to my old life. You’re much more effective than I believed you to be. Another miscalculation. But yes, that number was once me and I was once that number.”

Mr. Socrates said, “Please return to my ship. We won’t mistreat you. In fact, I’ll give you your choice of tea.”

“Such kindness,” the Guild Master replied. Modo studied him. Sarcasm? He really seemed cavalier. “I suppose logic dictates that I offer up my arms for manacles and bow down to your might.”

“There won’t be any need for manacles,” Mr. Socrates said. “We’re all gentlemen here.”

“Ah, I am more than that. And I have more names than you will ever know. My father named me Douglas, for one.” Then he began dancing around in a circle, flapping his arms like wings, looking every bit the lunatic, until he said, “But I truly am Daedalus.”

Daedalus—the Greek scientist who created wings from wax and feathers to escape a prison, along with his son, Icarus. Did the Guild Master really believe he could just up and fly away? As the man began to giggle at his own silliness, Modo glanced out at the airship docking station just to reassure himself it had indeed been broken in half. Then something overhead caught his eyes and he looked up. Man-sized white wings hung from the shattered ceiling.

“To the sun!” the Guild Master yelled, leaping onto an upturned desk and clutching the wings. Modo sprang after him, but the distance was too great. As the Guild Master ran toward the hole blasted in the side of the observation deck, he slid the ragged wings on and leapt toward the sky.

An impossibly large hand shot up from the side of the palace, catching him in midair and causing his glasses to go flying. He was thrown back into the room, landing on his broken wings.

Typhon climbed in and stood over him, a boot on the small man’s chest as he writhed around. If the roof hadn’t been blown off, the creature wouldn’t have been able to stand up straight. Typhon grabbed the Guild Master by his lapels and lifted him.

“Ah, so it is the master of the masters,” Typhon said. “Are we standing inside your broken dreams?”

“Put me down, monster!” the Guild Master ordered.

“Correct. I am a monster. But it was you who ordered my creation. You set your doctor and your minions to the task of piecing me together.” He paused. “So, tell me, who is the real monster?”

“Put him on the floor,” Mr. Socrates demanded. “That man is
my
prisoner.” Tharpa and the soldiers raised their guns.

Typhon tilted his head. “Your bullets won’t harm me. You cannot wound flesh that is already dead.”

“Release me!” The Guild Master was now shouting. “Release me at once! I command you, Typhon.”

“I reject that name. And your tinctures and commands no longer work on me. Beg, beg for my forgiveness. Tell me that you accept me as your child.”

“I shall not.”

“Then are you Daedalus or Icarus?”

Modo didn’t like the direction this was going. Icarus had, after all, flown too close to the sun, melting his wax wings and crashing to his death.

“I am Daedalus,” the Guild Master cried. “I am Daedalus!”

“You are Icarus,” Typhon said. He tore the wing from one
arm and, as though he were tossing away a cockroach, threw the Guild Master over the side of the palace tower to the rocks below.

Everyone else stood there, stunned.

Typhon turned to them and shrugged. “He gave me the brain of a murderer. What did he expect?” He pointed at Mr. Socrates. “I demand safe passage off of this island.”

Mr. Socrates looked him in the eye. “It would be immoral to allow you to roam free in the world.”

“Then we are at an impasse. I’ve not discovered my free will only to be forced to surrender it. I see only one avenue of escape.” He heaved his bulk toward Mr. Socrates. Tharpa let off two shots, but they only thudded into the creature’s flesh.

Modo flew at the monster. He had always been so amazingly strong; surely he could at least come between this thing and his master. But Typhon flicked Modo to the floor. Two more shots from Mr. Socrates’ pistol and then the creature had his hand around Mr. Socrates’ throat. He jerked him up and squeezed him against his chest. Already Mr. Socrates’ face was red from lack of air. “Get too close and I will snap this old rooster’s neck. I’ll let him go once I’ve escaped this place. I promise.”

He carried Mr. Socrates, who was limp and speechless, into the lift and began his descent. Modo tore down the spiral stairs after them. He shouted at the dragoons waiting below, “Back away! Don’t fire!”

Modo trailed after Typhon as they left the palace, staying far enough back so as not to alarm him. Mr. Socrates’ face had gone a frightening shade of purple. He saw Octavia running toward them and he motioned her to stay away.

The monster carried Mr. Socrates out into the water and dropped him unceremoniously into one of the Triton boats. He climbed in after him, and after several seconds of experimentation, the boat began to chug out to the ocean.

“You are overly dedicated to your master!” Typhon shouted.

“He is more than my master!” Modo yelled back. What could he do? He had no more weapons. No more words. His hand was broken. Modo pulled up his mask. “Typhon!” he shouted. “You’re not the only monster here!” He walked slowly toward the departing boat, the light falling fully upon his face, the waves creeping up his legs, his torso. He began to swim, tentatively, toward Typhon, keeping his face above the surface. “You see,” he shouted, “we are both monsters of a kind!” It was a last feeble gesture. Modo hoped to appeal to whatever tiny bit of humanity might still be floating about in Typhon’s brain.

Typhon stared at him, bemused. He waved his little finger. “One day I would like to know more about you,” he said, “but today is not that day.”

As though he had done it all his life, he began piloting the boat into the Pacific. With his enormous bulk it sat heavy in the water. He still had an arm around Mr. Socrates, who was now alert and struggling and beginning to holler.

“Let him go!” Modo pleaded. “You promised to let him go!”

“I did. You shouldn’t have trusted a murderer.” He paused. “But I shall keep my word.”

And so he tossed Mr. Socrates into the ocean.

O
ctavia kept her gun trained on Miss Hakkandottir from several paces away. The woman was as pale as the marble statues surrounding her, but her blue eyes stabbed Octavia’s. “I will break every bone in your body,” she said, spitting out each word, her voice frail.

“Not today.” Octavia smiled sweetly.

Dr. Hyde tightened the makeshift tourniquet on Miss Hakkandottir’s arm. Then he stroked her red hair, which had fallen out of its braids. “You will live,” he whispered. “My love. I will make you beautiful again.”

Octavia felt like throwing up. Who would have thought these two could be lovebirds?

Modo’s mother had rolled up into a ball at the foot of a statue and seemed to be sleeping. Chloroform? Or exhaustion from the torturous things they’d done to her?

Ah! Relief! A dragoon stooped to enter the door to take in the situation, followed by two Association soldiers, guns drawn. “You must be extremely careful with her,” Octavia said, pointing at Miss Hakkandottir. “And tend to Madame Hébert. She’ll need to see the ship’s doctor immediately.” Finally, Octavia scooped up Miss Hakkandottir’s metal hand and said with great satisfaction, “I’ll give this to Mr. Socrates myself.”

Then she ran down the hallway and up a set of stairs into the interior of the Crystal Palace. It was good to see sunlight again, even if it was filtered by the quartz.

No gunfire. The battles were over.

The Association soldiers were standing at attention, uncertain what to do. Through the front gate she spotted Modo walking alone toward the beach. She stepped out of the palace; then Modo turned and motioned her back. But … what? Typhon? Was that him out in the boat? And who was he holding against him? Mr. Socrates! He seemed to be struggling, yelling. And now Modo was wading into the water, shouting something at them.

She raced after them, watching fearfully as Typhon dropped Mr. Socrates in the water. Modo began to swim frantically, then dove below the surface.

Octavia dropped Miss Hakkandottir’s hand, ran to the end of the half-shattered dock, and dove in. The water took her breath away. She swam hard. She couldn’t see Mr. Socrates, only Modo surfacing twenty yards ahead of her and the monster in the boat in the far distance.

She pushed harder, gasping for air. Tharpa had taught
her better, but she was panicking. Then—Mr. Socrates’ hand poked out from the water, waving, reaching for the air before sinking beneath the surface again. Modo dove down after his master, and Octavia kicked and kicked until she was closer to them, then dove, down, down, coral and brightly colored fish all around her. Such a beautiful world.

In the coral lay Mr. Socrates—no longer struggling. He gave only an occasional shudder. Modo attempted to pull him up, but with just one good hand, it was impossible.
The meathead will drown along with our master!
Octavia kicked harder and grabbed Mr. Socrates’ shoulder, and together they pulled him up.

They broke the surface, the old man between them, pale and limp. A boat was already waiting. Tharpa pulled Mr. Socrates in, turned him onto his side, and began pounding on his back. Modo clung to one side of the boat, Octavia the other, both gasping for air.

After a minute or two, Tharpa let out a noise unlike anything Octavia had ever heard, but she knew its meaning. Overwhelming grief. The language of sorrow.

“Sahib!” he cried out. There had been such devotion between them. Again he pounded his master on the back.

Mr. Socrates gave up the slightest sputter. Then a cough. He began to take in air, great gulps of it. Octavia and Modo climbed onboard and worked on Mr. Socrates, helping him expel the water, as Tharpa piloted the boat toward the
Shah
.

After a few minutes, Modo clutched his hand, grimacing in pain. Octavia stared at him, at his face. She didn’t flinch. His eyes were so full of suffering. She studied the water
dripping down his features, his patchy red hair plastered to his scalp. His breath came hard through his ragged mouth. She could look at this face.

He turned toward her, caught her looking. She smiled and said, “Next time you should let me do the swimming.”

T
yphon kept one hand on the wheel of the boat, looking back as the
Shah
disappeared on the horizon. Soon the island of Atticus was gone and he was alone on the water. These little boats were fast. They wouldn’t be able to catch up with him. He thought of that last view of Modo. That was the young man’s name, wasn’t it? There had been something, dare he say, touching, about that. He’d shown him his face, and Typhon had been surprised: it was uglier than his own. They were indeed brothers, of a sort. At the least, they shared the same blood. He stroked the little finger on his right hand.

But that world was now behind him. What new worlds, what new places could there be for someone such as he? South was the best direction. South to Antarctica. Maybe there he would find peace: a place where no one would bother him.

He looked at the boat’s compass, unsure about the
direction. Still, he was pretty certain he’d find the way. After all, several brains were stuffed together in his skull. One of them would surely contain the map of the Pacific. And with that thought, he discovered a map in his long dead memories. Life was full of little surprises.

He laughed, frightening the seagulls that flew above him.

F
or the first two days of the journey to Esquimalt, Modo was so exhausted that he mostly slept in his cabin on the
Shah
. The ship’s surgeon did what he could for his hand, resetting the bones but predicting he’d never have full use of it again. Modo didn’t correct him, but it would be good as new in a few weeks. That was just how his body worked.