Empire of Ruins (20 page)

He swung along under the car, clutching the springs and hoping that the bolts were strong enough to bear his weight. The best way to stop the enemy, of course, would be to bring the whole thing down. But it wasn’t as if he had a stick of dynamite.

Focus on what you have! Think!

The most logical thing to do was to damage the engine. He could jam the propeller, but how to accomplish it? A stolen rifle would be chopped in half. If he could just see the engine itself, maybe he’d have his answer.

The
Prometheus
turned to starboard and a blast of wind caught him, blowing his cloak around so his hood became tangled in a spring. He tried to extricate it with his left hand, holding tight to the ship with his right, but the spring had poked a hole through the fabric.

His right hand suddenly stung so painfully that he opened it and found himself hanging by his hood, swinging back and forth in the wind. A Guild soldier with a pipe wrench was right behind him, arm raised for another smash, his other hand gripping the spring. Modo let out a yelp and caught the wrench, absorbing a bone-shaking blow. He pulled himself up using the man’s arm, tearing his hood free. He was eye to eye with the enemy. Modo got a grip on a spring and yanked the wrench out of the soldier’s hands. The soldier tried to grab Modo but slipped, falling headfirst through the air. Modo turned his face away.

A bullet ricocheted off the metal undercarriage. Another Guild soldier was twenty feet away, hanging by one hand, aiming his pistol with the other. Modo tucked the pipe wrench in his belt and scrambled aft as quickly as he could, then swung himself up and was nearly decapitated by the propeller. He pressed hard against the side, hoping the wind wouldn’t blow his cloak into it. But as he edged around the side of the car, the blades caught the hem. With all his strength Modo yanked it out—now in tatters.
Why did I wear a cloak!
he wanted to scream.

Several gyroscope-like instruments stuck out of the ship
beside him, spinning madly; he imagined they somehow measured airspeed. A bullet struck one and it fell. The soldier was now climbing up the side of the ship for a better shot. Thankfully, the swaying of the
Prometheus
made it difficult for him to aim while clinging with one hand.

Modo swung around, caught a corner of the partly extended gangplank with his hand, and, with an acrobatic leap that included a great flip through the air, threw himself into the
Prometheus
.

He landed firmly on his feet, face to face with Miss Hakkandottir. Before he could react, she had her metal hand around his throat and had pushed him down on the floor, against coils of ropes. He tried to pry her fingers away, but they were as strong as the determination in her eyes.

“I was hoping to capture you, Modo,” she said, almost gently. “The Guild Master wants to know what makes you tick.”

The air in his lungs was disappearing. She’d soon crush his windpipe! He’d never break her viselike grip. But Mr. Socrates’ voice came to him:
Fear attacks rational thought
. He’d said it a thousand times. She was only human. Her hand was strong, perhaps stronger than he was. But the rest of her was flesh.

He booted her in the knee and she spat out a curse, but her metal hand still cut off his airway. He grabbed her hand with both of his and pulled it away with all his strength, hoping he wouldn’t rip out his windpipe in the process. He sucked in a long breath. He flung himself to his feet and stumbled against the side of the car. Bullets cut through his cloak, missing his body.

In a flash he took in the scene: six soldiers with pistols
aimed at him were spread out through the car; behind them were a pilot and copilot madly working the controls, and next to them the falconer.

Modo raised his arms in surrender, which momentarily stopped the shooting. If he could get to the pilots he could toss them overboard. That would put an end to the pursuit.

Miss Hakkandottir stood up, holding her knee. She was about to say something, but Modo leapt forward, grabbed her by the hair, and spun her around as a shield between him and the Guild soldiers, pinning her metal hand against her side. He dragged her along so that his back was pressed against the steam engine. The red-hot boiler burned through his clothes, the misty steam and smoke fogging his goggles. He pulled out the pipe wrench and held it high.

“I’ll brain her if any of you makes a move.”

“Dimitri!” Miss Hakkandottir shouted. “You are the best shot. Take it now. Between his eyes.”

One soldier raised his pistol, his hand steady. Modo jerked to the left, dragging his hostage with him, and the bullet pinged off the boiler. Miss Hakkandottir ripped her hand from his grip, screamed in rage, and swung back behind her, so that he had to use the wrench to deflect the metal hand. It struck the boiler, making it ring like a bell.

“Shoot again, you idiot!”

Dimitri’s hand was trembling, the pistol barrel wavering. Modo suddenly realized Miss Hakkandottir didn’t care whether or not the bullet went through her before it hit him, so he shoved her into the soldiers, knocking Dimitri and two others down. Then he turned, grabbed a metal rod on the ceiling, swung to the opposite side of the steam engine, and began smashing at it with the wrench. Dials shattered,
hoses broke, spraying out water and steam, but the engine continued to roar. It would take hours to dismantle the machine!

He dropped the wrench and grabbed the bottom of the red-hot boiler, struggling to lift it, ignoring his burning hands. The metal bands that held it to the floor snapped, and to his own surprise and the surprise of his enemies, he lifted the engine. He tried to heft it over the side, but it was too heavy and he fell back, dropping it. Pipes had broken, and they began to smoke and clatter. The whole car lurched to starboard and Modo slipped over the side, reaching out at the last moment to cling to the railing.

He looked down, searching. No sign of the
Prince Albert
. He glanced up to find Miss Hakkandottir, bleeding from the forehead, shaking a saber at him.

“Die! Just die like the rat you are!” She swung the saber.

The excruciating pain in his hand made Modo let go.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see death coming for him.
You’re being stupid, Modo
, he thought, and opened them again just as he struck something. He had a moment to realize it was the balloon on the
Prince Albert
before it burst, hydrogen shooting out of vast rips in its side. He bounced off, flailing his arms and finding nothing to grab. He glimpsed the car, a blurred vision of Octavia’s horrified face, and then the beautiful green of the rain-forest floor.

M
r. Socrates heard the thud as though a huge rock had slammed into the
Prince Albert
’s outer balloon. The balloon burst with the impact and the airship plummeted toward the ground.

“Lizzie, guide us down!” he shouted.

She grunted as she pulled a lever and tried to steer the ship.

As Mr. Socrates turned to examine the damage, he saw a figure fall through the air, a cloak flapping around him. Modo! Good Lord! Impossible to make the
Prince Albert
dive fast enough to catch him.

“Was that Modo?” Octavia shrieked. “Was it?”

“Yes,” Mr. Socrates said. He couldn’t bring himself to watch Modo fall. He looked up. The
Prometheus
was smoking in the sky and going in circles. “He accomplished his goal.”

“But I thought we were going to get closer to him!” she yelled. “We were supposed to rescue him! That’s what you said!”

“We got as close as possible!” Mr. Socrates bellowed.
No! Do not let her set you off
. He paused to take a deep breath. “Now, get hold of your emotions. We’re descending with some speed and need to lighten our load. Find anything you can that’s not necessary and toss it overboard.”

Octavia stared at him, anger burning in her eyes. He almost gave her a slap to snap her out of it but feared he’d only make things worse. Besides, with all Tharpa had taught her, she might just flatten him.

“Deal with what’s before you,” he said to her calmly, “then respond to what you cannot change.”

She blinked, then said through clenched teeth, “Fine, I will!” She threw the teapot, of all things, over the side.

He bit back a curse.

The darkest of thoughts hit him:
Modo is dead
. His knees nearly buckled. His stomach lurched and he gritted his teeth.
No, it can’t be! That boy, my boy, my agent, can’t be counted out so soon. Modo has more lives than a cat
. He would believe the boy was dead only when he saw his lifeless body with his own eyes.

He lifted a sack of flour and cast it over. “Help me with the engine, Tharpa!” The
Prince Albert
was getting dangerously close to the treetops, Lizzie steering them left and right to avoid the taller trees. They hefted the motor and heaved it over the side. The airship popped up several feet.

The primary balloon was deflating too, but at least they were falling more slowly now.

“My dear Lizzie, I would appreciate it if you’d now find a clearing for us,” he said, as though he were ordering crumpets.

She nodded.

He wished he’d chosen a green balloon rather than this red one, which would stick out in all the foliage. Sometimes he was far too patriotic, he thought, and it would be the death of him.

“There?” Lizzie pointed to a small gorge where a branch of the river ran through a rocky bed. It looked almost peaceful.

“Yes!”

“Hold on to your teacups,” Lizzie warned. The wind bashed them around, but she was able to steer them closer and closer to the ground, the wicker car cracking and buckling as it snapped off treetops and branches. They dove into the clearing, bounced twice across the water, hit a pile of rocks, and came to a stop so abrupt that Mr. Socrates flew across the car and smashed his head on the hydrogen machine, burning his scalp.

He stood up groggily and felt around until he found the emergency valve’s rope. He gave it a good tug and the valve on top of the balloon opened, releasing the hydrogen into the air before it could blow them to bits. He shoved the balloon skin out of his way and looked up. No sign of Hakkandottir. Yet.

Tharpa had been tossed from the car but was splashing through the water toward them. Octavia and Lizzie were both in the car holding their heads but seemed unharmed otherwise. “Any broken bones?” Mr. Socrates asked, barely
giving time for a reply. “Good! Quick! Drag everything into the forest before they spot us!”

They each grabbed hold of a section and wrestled with it, pulling desperately until the balloon and the car were well hidden under the ferns and palm trees. All the while Mr. Socrates glanced up at the bits of sky he could see. No noise or sign of their enemy.

“Please, let’s start searching for Modo,” Octavia said.

“No,” Mr. Socrates replied forcefully. He’d already thought this through. “He’s a clever young man and I trained him well. If he’s alive he’ll find us.”

“And how will he do that?”

“Because, Octavia, he will go to the temple. That’s his mission and our greatest hope. If we’re going to find him anywhere, it will be there.”

F
or Modo, the fall from the sky and the events that followed had all happened with astonishing speed. He’d smashed through the pine and palm trees and landed on his back on the rain-forest floor. A missing finger, his pinky, was his only major injury. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t suffered worse.

Moments later, before he’d even had a chance to gather his wits, he was fleeing from a gang of tribesmen.

And here he was falling again, this time into a deep pit. Time had slowed, as though the grains of sand in an hourglass were dropping one by one. He counted the stakes. Sixteen. Sharpened bamboo.

He pictured the first time he’d seen Octavia in her green dress; the way she had looked as he clung to her arm, about to fall from the
Hugo;
her horrified face as he dropped past the
Prince Albert
.