Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) (26 page)

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.

M
r. 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.

“I
t 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 the 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.

She felt a drop of rain. She touched the damp spot on her face, confused, then looked up. There, clinging to the chandelier, was a man wearing a mask.

M
odo did what he had been trained to do. Without hesitation, he dropped to the floor in the middle of his enemies, yanked the rifle from one soldier and knocked him out with the butt end, then broke the gun over the head of another soldier. He threw the pieces at Miss Hakkandottir, striking the pistol out of her hand just as she swung it around to shoot him. Octavia took care of the third soldier and then grabbed Dr. Hyde and held her saber to his throat. Modo’s mother fell to the floor.

Modo was face to face with Miss Hakkandottir. “Modo,” she said, “how I have longed for this.” She swung her metal fist at him; he deflected the blow and she knocked the head off a statue of Zeus instead.

“That’s a Polyclitus!” the man wearing glasses shouted.

Modo lost his balance and Miss Hakkandottir delivered a
kick to his midsection that sent him tumbling into another statue. She drew her saber. All he had was his knife. In desperation, he threw it speeding end over end toward her heart, but with her metal hand she batted it aside.

“This time I’ll take more than your finger,” she said. “I’m not leaving without your head.”

“Give it your best shot,” he said. As she swung, he lifted a broken arm from a statue and parried the blow. He was surprised at how fearless he felt. She lunged to stab his stomach and he knocked the blade aside, driving it into the wall. It stuck, and as she tried to pull it out, he smashed the saber with the arm of the statue, breaking the blade.

She smacked him in the head with her metal fist. He staggered, swinging blindly, and she caught his fist with her metal hand and squeezed, crushing his bones. She grinned with gritted teeth as she brought him to his knees. Octavia ran across the room, saber raised to slash her, but, with amazing speed, his enemy knocked Octavia aside with her other arm.

“This is for destroying my ship.” She tightened her grip; Modo let out a scream. He tried to get up, to push against her, but the pain was unbearable.

Then he saw his mother lying on the floor behind Miss Hakkandottir. She was coming to, fear in her eyes. His heart felt caught in his throat. He gathered every last ounce of his strength and got to his feet, despite his crushed hand. Miss Hakkandottir refused to let go, so he swung his arm with all his might, slamming her into the wall. She still wouldn’t let go. Perhaps she couldn’t—her hand seemed to be locked. He swung her again and again, knocking over statues. Dr. Hyde was shouting, “Leave her be!” Modo swung Miss Hakkandottir
a third time and she flew through the air, screaming obscenities.

Her metal hand was still attached to him, her blood dripping from the wrist and dangling wires.

He pried at the fingers until they loosened and the hand fell off. He didn’t dare to look at his own throbbing, mangled fist. Miss Hakkandottir shrieked, “Damn you!” and tried to stand, but couldn’t. Dr. Hyde ran and wrapped her stub with a piece of cloth from his shirt.

Meanwhile, Octavia had grabbed a pistol from a fallen soldier. “No one move,” she commanded, sweeping the room with it.

Everyone was still. Silent.

Then the man with the glasses fled.

T
he doors to the palace wouldn’t budge, so they blew a jagged hole in them with dynamite and the dragoons thrust the remaining pieces open. Mr. Socrates sent the dragoons in first, then the soldiers and the marines. When they weren’t met with gunfire, he entered. Several dead Guild soldiers lay on the floor. The palace had been deserted.

As his men explored the interior, Mr. Socrates stopped to look up at the giant clock, the symbol of the Clockwork Guild. Beside it was a massive fountain spouting fresh water. Such magnificence, and all from one man’s mind. But why a
guild
, then? After all, that meant a collective, several minds working together, didn’t it? So once they destroyed this island fortress, would other cells pop up? If so, the Association would silence them all, one by one.

Some forty yards away, a trapdoor was flung open, and a
small man leapt from the hole and slammed the door shut again. He wore glasses and gray clothing; he looked like a clerk, one of many the Guild must employ. Near the door was a spiral staircase, which the man immediately mounted without a glance at Mr. Socrates or his men.

The trapdoor opened again and a short, bulky figure leapt out and sped up the stairs in hot pursuit. Modo!

“Should I stop the little man?” Tharpa raised his rifle.

Mr. Socrates shook his head. “No. Modo wouldn’t chase this man for no reason. We take the lift to the top. We’ll want to know what this fellow has to say.”

W
hile the other dragoons cleared the palace, Oppie was assigned cleanup duty around the island. He combed the wreckage with one of the other dragoons and three soldiers, and rounded up all the surviving Guild soldiers. They would be sent on boats to the
Shah
for imprisonment in the hold.

He found himself in the area of the battlefield where he’d left Typhon’s body. There was no sign of the creature. He looked back at the
Shah
, now anchored in the bay. One of the ship’s cranes was working, heaving a large crate from a boat over to the deck of the ship.
Ah, there we go
, he thought. The marines had already transported the monstrosity to the
Shah
.

“And good riddance,” he shouted at the crate, before carrying on with his rounds.