Empire of Ruins (15 page)

“Ah, boss, you’ve arrived,” she said. She was perhaps forty years old. “Good, you can tell these men how to unpack your precious swag. They don’t like taking orders from a dingo.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, too, Elizabeth,” Mr. Socrates said.

“It’s Lizzie and you know it; you’re only trying to get my goat.” She turned and snapped, “You’d better watch that!”
A man holding a wooden box jumped back and glowered at her. “There’s an altimeter in there. I bet you don’t even know what that is, you worm. You break it and I’ll break you.”

“I like this woman,” Octavia whispered to Modo. She was gazing with open admiration at Lizzie.

Modo, however, was a little taken aback and couldn’t decide what he thought of Lizzie. And Mrs. Finchley couldn’t hide her horror.

“Leave the men to their work,” Mr. Socrates said, gesturing for the woman to walk with him back to the group. “I would like to introduce Elizabeth Tompsitt, or Lizzie, as she prefers.”

Lizzie grabbed Modo’s hand and squeezed so tightly that he thought his fingers would break. Her palms were rough with calluses. “I’m …” He looked at Mr. Socrates for guidance.

“You’re Modo, today,” he said with a laugh. “Forget your life as Anthony Reid.”

“I’m M-Modo,” he said. Lizzie let go of his hand and he discreetly rubbed out the pain. He wished he could be Anthony Reid. He would miss calling Mr. Socrates Father.

Lizzie clapped Tharpa on the back—“Tharpa, you duffer-dealing digger, it’s good to set eyes on you again”—and without missing a beat, she bowed to Octavia and Mrs. Finchley. “I can only imagine what you dainty ones think of me.”

Mrs. Finchley turned red, but Octavia spat out, “I’m not dainty! I’m Octavia!”

“Yes, well,” Mr. Socrates said. “I know you’ve all been wondering why we’re here and what these crates contain.”
He pointed at what looked like a long red sheet that had been laid on the ground and folded several times. “All of these parts together will become an aeronautic balloon. Steam powered, of course; technically that makes it an airship.” He paused. “And our mutual friend Lizzie will be our pilot.”

A
s they reached the ranch house, Modo felt his lower lip sag. The hunch on his back was slowly rising and that made his stomach tighten. He couldn’t stop it. He pulled on Tharpa’s shoulder and signaled him to follow. The two went around the corner of the house as the others walked inside.

“I am,” Modo whispered, “losing my shape. And I forgot my mask.”

“Ah, young sahib. Unfortunate.”

“I don’t have any way of covering my face.”

“There are only friends inside. You don’t have to fear displaying your appearance to them.”

“I don’t want Octavia to see me this way,” Modo said, embarrassed that he was forced to confess it.

Tharpa nodded and placed his hand on Modo’s shoulder for a moment before answering, “Then we will solve this.” He reached up and unraveled his turban, revealing
shoulder-length dark hair streaked with gray. He carefully wrapped the cloth around Modo’s face so that only his eyes were showing. “Undo the collar buttons on your shirt, but keep your coat on. That will hide your shape.”

“But are you allowed to do this?” Even though they had shared a cabin, Modo had never seen Tharpa without his turban. “I mean, isn’t your turban a religious symbol?”

“I am among friends. And if it is in aid of a friend, then I am allowed to remove it.” He paused. “But be warned, I am told that Englishwomen go mad over men with long hair.”

They enjoyed a laugh together, then went into the ranch house. Mr. Socrates, Mrs. Finchley, and Octavia were seated at a rough-hewn wooden table. Mr. Socrates looked askance at Modo and Tharpa but made no comment. Octavia stared at Modo’s mummified head, then even longer at Tharpa’s hair. Perhaps Tharpa hadn’t been joking about Englishwomen.

Modo carefully brushed the dirt off one of the stools, which got a derisive chuckle out of Octavia.

“Always neat, aren’t you?” she whispered.

Modo sat down and crossed his arms.

“So you’ve decided to join us,” Mr. Socrates chided. He unrolled a colorful map of Australia across the table. “We’re going to fly to the Queensland rain forest.” He pointed at the northeast part of the country. “By ship we’d need six days of sailing along the coast, but we’ll take a shortcut through the sky. At twenty-five knots per hour, more if the wind is in our favor, we’ll be there within three days. Why, we’ll even have time to stop in Brisbane for pineapple, if we
so desire. I have a few notes about the geography of the area from my friend John Atherton, a cattleman and an explorer. It will be the easiest crossing of the Australian jungle in history. We shall have tea and cakes three times a day, far above the earth.”

“It sounds marvelous!” Octavia exclaimed. She clapped Modo on the shoulder. “Imagine that, Modo, we’ll be soaring like eagles.”

He swallowed. “Yes, imagine that.”

The idea of being above the earth had always appealed to him, so long as he was holding on to a building. But now they wouldn’t be attached to anything at all.

“The Royal Geographical Society would, if they learned of it, be quite envious of our flight,” Mr. Socrates said. “This trip across the continent would take explorers on foot or horseback months.”

“How will we find the temple?” Octavia asked.

“My hope is that we’ll spot it from the air, though I realize that’s unlikely. The rain forest is particularly dense. Assuming the map Fred Land provided to us is accurate, we should be able to tether the ship to a palm tree and climb down near the temple. If we’re lucky we’ll only have to search on foot for a few hours. Any more questions?”

“I hope you don’t expect me to ride in that contraption,” Mrs. Finchley huffed, her arms crossed.

“No, my dear Mrs. Finchley,” Mrs. Socrates answered. “You shall remain in Sydney for the next fortnight or so, longer if necessary. I’ve already paid for a room at the Occidental Hotel, which you’ll find much more to your liking. I’ve also taken the liberty of purchasing tickets for you to
the Theatre Royal. For a colony they do have rather good shows, though I don’t recommend any of the comedies. A little too common, if you get my meaning.”

“You mean belches and farts,” Octavia said.

“How pleasant, Octavia,” Mr. Socrates said. “Mrs. Finchley, please make a note to stamp the last vestiges of the cockney attitude out of Octavia upon our return voyage.” He wasn’t smiling. “Well, if there are no further questions, it’s time to see how they’re progressing with our airship.”

They followed him outside, where Lizzie was still ordering the men around as they pulled ropes and fit together various mechanical pieces. Modo was glad to see that the car of the airship was as long as a large rowboat and made of thick wicker. Three men were placing an engine in the aft section of the car.

“We have the Clockwork Guild to thank for this,” Mr. Socrates said.

“How so?” Modo asked.

“Twice they’ve used balloons or dirigibles, once when they attacked the Houses of Parliament and again on the
Wyvern
. It’s important to learn from your enemies. It got me thinking about the possibilities of air travel, so I sought the advice of several inventive military scientists, and with a little of my own tweaking, we’ve designed this ship.”

“I’ve done some reading, Mr. Socrates, about the Montgolfier brothers and their balloons,” Modo said, hoping to impress his master. “Which gas will you use?”

“Hydrogen, of course. Yes, it’s extremely flammable, but I can’t make helium out of thin air.”

“But how will we ascend and descend?” Modo asked.

“Ah, you have studied up!” Mr. Socrates pointed at the red balloon. “I used your descriptions of the
Ictíneo
as inspiration. As you’ll no doubt remember, the submarine ship had two hulls to prevent sea pressure from crushing it. So there will be a balloon inside a balloon. When we need to descend we allow gas to escape from the outside balloon. When we decide to climb to the heavens, we fill the outside balloon again.”

“So you let out the gas to go down,” Octavia said. “That sounds rather … flatulent.”

“I won’t even dignify that with a response, Octavia. It’s the cutting edge of aeronautic science. With a steam-powered engine and enough compressed coal, we’ll be able to travel to our destination and back without resupplying.”

He pointed at the framework the men were now assembling, which Modo assumed would house the balloons. “I’ve dubbed it the
Prince Albert
, after the Queen’s departed spouse. If she actually knew about us and our Association, she would be honored, I’m sure.

“Tomorrow, our little adventure will begin,” he continued, “and you, my friends, will be the first to see this country from the car of a steam-powered airship. We’re making history, though no one but us will know of it. Now come along, back to our quarters. We’ll need a good rest; I’m afraid sleeping arrangements on the
Prince Albert
will be rather dreadful.” He paused. “Oh, and don’t overeat. We’ll be weighing you in the morning to plan for ballast.”

Then he laughed in a way that made him seem ten years younger.

M
ichael Brown had followed the group from Cockatoo Island to their hotel. It had been relatively easy to recognize them from the telegraphed descriptions; no other man on the
Rome
had an Indian servant. He waited outside the hotel as they ate, watched the Indian arrive, and minutes later, followed them on a stolen horse. When they disappeared over a hill, he at first kept his distance, then dismounted and crept up to look down on what they were doing.

He watched through his spyglass as they entered the ranch house. There was no safe way to find out what they were discussing, not with all those armed men wandering around.

At first he wondered what they could be assembling. But he’d been a military man before turning to a life of detective work, and it was soon clear to him that it was a dirigible.

He rode back to Sydney and sent a telegram to his employer.

A
t sunrise Modo dressed in the khaki trousers and jacket that had been delivered to his room by Tharpa, then wrapped a cloak around his shoulders and placed a sun helmet on his head. He hadn’t been given orders about what persona to assume, so he had chosen the Doctor face. This time he buttoned his mask into a pocket. He threw his rucksack over his shoulder and went to Octavia and Mrs. Finchley’s room, where he waited for a full minute, hoping to say goodbye to his governess—but she was likely still asleep. He knew Octavia would already be outside, ready to go.

Shrugging, he went down the hall through the dingy pub, left the Rag and Famish Hotel, and climbed into the waiting carriage.

“Let’s see a little more jump in your step, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said. “Once again you’re the last to arrive.” He too was in khaki, and had a sun helmet on his lap. The walking stick in his hand looked more like a cudgel.