Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) (17 page)

“It has been a long journey, Mr. Socrates,” Octavia said. Modo gritted his teeth; he didn’t need her to defend him.

“I don’t even want to imagine what they want with her, sir,” he snapped. “Don’t you think I haven’t been running through a hundred horrific scenarios? How can you ask me to speak of this? You know what the Guild is capable of. Your guess is as good as mine. Don’t make me speak of my mother this way.”

“Don’t be weak—weakness will be used by the enemy to break you.” That sharp tone! After years of hearing it, Modo involuntarily straightened.

Modo thought hard and finally drew in a deep breath. “Okay, I can think of two reasons. One, they want to get to me. They would dearly like to capture me. So this suggests they are using her to draw me to them.”

“A doubtful scenario,” Mr. Socrates said. “They would have to communicate with you again in order to give you the location to which they want to lead you.”

“Exactly, sir. My second conclusion is that there’s something in her, in her biology or her … her body … her blood … something they can use. In the past they’ve employed drugs and metal enhancements to modify and
strengthen hounds and children. What monsters they dream up! For what exact purpose they’ll use my mother, I do not know.”

“We must look into the abyss, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said. “It’s the only way to defeat such blackguards. It is becoming obvious to me that they intend to bring at least one more Typhon into the world.”

“That makes sense,” Modo whispered.

“Then what is the connection between Typhon and Modo’s mother?” Octavia asked.

“There isn’t one,” Modo said. “There can’t be.”

“No, Octavia has a very valid point,” Mr. Socrates said. “Excellent rational thinking. If this Typhon has been somehow strengthened by … by stitching parts of other men together, then he would be well served by the ability to regenerate. And, Modo, no one is stronger nor heals more quickly than you. And your finger grew back.”

“No. The Guild can’t be aware of my regenerative abilities. We didn’t even know ourselves until Miss Hakkandottir cut off my finger.” He stared at his hand. She had sliced the little finger off while he was hanging from her airship and he’d fallen to Earth, leaving his finger behind.

Mr. Socrates tapped Modo’s hand with his walking stick. Modo drew it back. “It would not be beyond Miss Hakkandottir to keep a trophy of her battle with you. And, once that trophy was in their lab, for Dr. Hyde to experiment with it.”

“It can’t be.” Modo recoiled in shock. Octavia gasped. But his finger had itched when he’d seen Typhon’s little finger. As though his body recognized the truth. “Typhon did have a disproportionately small pinkie finger,” Modo said. He
shuddered, though he knew it was better to face facts without emotion, as Mr. Socrates had always taught him.

“Then it is possible that there’s a connection between you and Typhon as well. Ah, we have learned a lot in a short while. We’ll have plenty of time to think upon these riddles and others as we travel.”

The carriage stopped in front of Bonaventure Station, a grand stone building that reminded Modo a little of Notre Dame. There were rows of carriages waiting out front, loading and unloading passengers. Modo was the last to get out, and Mr. Socrates pulled him aside and said quietly, “I’m sorry about Monsieur Hébert and the girl. Come along.”

Modo paused. His master had actually sensed that Modo was feeling some pain.
Perhaps the old man has grown a heart
. It was curious, he noted, that Mr. Socrates referred to his parents by their last name only. Not as
your mother and father
.

Tharpa tossed half the luggage to Modo and carried the rest himself. Modo followed Tharpa into the train station, almost running across the intricate marble floors. Within minutes they were on a westbound train leaving the island of Montreal.

“Where are we going?” Modo asked.

“Westward ho!” Mr. Socrates said jauntily. “We’re traveling through Ontario, then taking the Grand Trunk line. We’ll follow the North Pacific route through the United States, since the laggardly Canadian government has not yet figured out how to build its own national rail line. This band of metal that crosses the United States is quite the accomplishment. And all done without the British. I guess the old colony is growing up.”

“I’m sure they’d be pleased to know they have your approval,” Octavia said.

“Indeed they would,” Mr. Socrates said. Modo wasn’t certain if he was joking or not.

“Is the Clockwork Guild located in the American West?” Modo asked. “How soon will we lock horns with them?”

“No, no,” Mr. Socrates said. “The West is not that wild. The Guild is somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, I am certain. I’m following my intuition on this one.”

“You mean we may be going through all this trouble and ending up in the middle of nowhere?” Modo asked.

“Be assured, I know their general whereabouts. The real difficulty will be discovering their base.”

“And what will our assignments be?” Octavia asked.

“To deal with events as they unfold. Enough about work. Let us enjoy our trip.”

Modo and Octavia exchanged a glance. No plan? His intuition? Who was this man?

The hours passed. The car didn’t have the first-class cabins Modo had come to admire in England and France. Instead, there were two rows of seats on either side of the train. They did have beautiful wide windows and above them, in the curve of the ceiling, were elaborate stained-glass windows. Dressing rooms and lavatories were at the far end of the car.

The lack of cabins would make for an uncomfortable trip. Modo wouldn’t be able to hide his disfigurement as easily, but for some reason, he found he didn’t care. His mask would have to be enough to protect the other passengers from seeing his face. And if they were put off by the mask, too bad.

He and Octavia were delighted to discover saloon cars,
balcony cars, dining cars, and refreshment cars. Modo bought a copy of
The Moonstone
, by Wilkie Collins, from a boy with a basket of books for sale. He loved a good detective story.

They had taken seats at the front of their car so they could not be so easily gawked at. Modo sat nearest the window. They passed into Ontario and through Toronto and crossed at Sarnia into Michigan. At eight o’clock a steward announced, “It’s bedtime, folks.” In the space of a few minutes the seats were lowered; beds and red curtains gave everyone privacy. Tharpa was across the aisle from Modo and Mr. Socrates, sharing with a stranger. Octavia had a seat to herself.

Modo had never slept in the same room with Mr. Socrates, never mind inches away from him. “Good night, Modo,” he said, pulling his nightcap on tight. Mr. Socrates fell asleep almost instantly, but Modo’s mind was still aching from all that had happened. Unbidden, Colette’s face filled his mind. She had asked to see his brutal features before she died, had actually wanted his face to be the last image she saw. His face!

There had been other deaths in his life, but not someone he … he … loved. That was it. He had loved her. Not in the same way as he did Octavia, but under different circumstances they might have spent a lifetime together. She had tried to save him from the monstrous Typhon and had given him a gift by looking at his face. Of saying he was beautiful. Would a dying woman lie?

Such were his thoughts for a very long time, before he finally drifted off to the rhythm of a train chugging westward.

T
yphon was sitting on a stone, gazing in wonder at the Pacific Ocean. They had named him Typhon, but he didn’t feel as though the name truly belonged to him. He wasn’t Typhon; he was several people at once. There were voices in his head, bubbling like a brew, but this voice, the one that was thinking at this moment, was his own. Wasn’t it?

His thoughts had returned slowly, as though he were waking from a deep sleep. For so long the only other voices he heard were those of his masters; their commands would rattle around in his skull until he obeyed them. As time passed, more of his own thoughts sprouted up between those commands. Occasionally, he would even have memories. They were dark names and feelings. A mother. Yes, he remembered a mother who had held him as a child. And the feeling of coarse, itchy rope around his neck. Then darkness. Did the
memories belong to him or to someone else? And he remembered too the emotions of those moments. The comfort, the uncertainty.

They had tried to turn him into a laborer, but someone had to constantly give him instructions. So they let him wander the island. They fed him when he was hungry, but the soldiers and even the mechanical hounds kept their distance.

Every night he would visit Dr. Hyde to be examined. Sometimes there was a stitch that had broken and needed mending. “Your flesh will eventually grow together,” the doctor said, “like the regeneration of a lizard’s tail. A very exciting scientific discovery, Typhon.”

The monster nodded.

“And Lime tells me you’ve learned more words. You speak well, at times.”

“I speak well.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard you speak before. But it’s great news that you’ve retained those faculties. Communicating will be much easier.”

“I experience elocution.”

“Ah.” The doctor stared at him dumbfounded, his eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses so big they were comical. Typhon nearly laughed. “You use such complicated words.”

“Yes. I can … I am cognizant of that.”

“Marvelous, simply marvelous,” the doctor said.

Perhaps, Typhon mused, he would crush the doctor’s skull. This was the man who had brought him to life; the first face he had seen when his eyes opened. This old, tiny, frail-boned man. Typhon lifted his hands, then lowered them. He chose
not to commit the act. It would be an interesting experience, but he had a curious affection for the old man.

“I am very proud of you,” the doctor said. “So very proud.”

Typhon nodded. “Who was I?”

“Who were you?” the doctor said. “Oh, I see. You have some questions that all children ask: Who am I? Why am I here? Very interesting. I didn’t expect that. Do you have memories of, how shall I put it, another time? Another you?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Oh, now, that is
very
interesting. You see, you were not one person, but several. Your brain is amalgamated from the gray matter of a man named William Middleton. He was a prospector and a murderer. And from that of a man named Duncan McTavish. He was a writer and a murderer. Other brains were required, though I only used smaller portions of those. Do these names mean anything to you?”

“They sound familiar.” But he couldn’t picture either man.

“Well, do tell me if you experience any more memories. Curious that they can live on after the electric charge of life has been snuffed out and reignited. I have more good news, Typhon.” The doctor gestured to the walls with a palsied hand. “Soon you won’t be alone.”

Typhon looked around the room at the others, frozen in coffins of ice. Would they be his brothers? His sisters? His friends? Or his enemies? He should destroy the bodies now. Then he wouldn’t have to risk being destroyed by his enemies.

“You are dismissed, Typhon,” Dr. Hyde said.

He walked out of the cave and along the wet, stony
ground. There were always soldiers around, and sometimes that woman with the red hair. And he had once stood before someone called the Guild Master. A tiny man with a powerful voice. He could not find any older memories of such people inside his head. He did have memories, though, of a wife with a reedy voice. Had he been married? Had he children?

Sometimes he would see Lime. The man with the metal teeth had barked at him and treated him like a dog. He would snuff him out for that. He imagined the event, the glee he would feel. He could do it now, but the hounds and the soldiers would tear him apart. It would not be wise to kill Lime at this juncture. He would wait.

Besides, Typhon was beginning to understand how small Lime really was. He had not built a palace on this island. He had not given the orders that created Typhon.

He walked where the seagulls flew along the edge of the island. He watched other, little birds flit through the air. So pretty. He sat under a palm tree and held out his hand.

He held it perfectly still for three hours, breath shallow and quiet. Finally a bird with pretty yellow wings landed on it. He watched the bird. It watched him. He couldn’t think of the name of the bird. He should know that.

Then, with a quick squeeze, he crushed it.

“Canary,” he said.

T
hough the trip across the American West was one beautiful landscape after another—each could be a giant painting like those in the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square—Modo wished the train would chug faster. He’d shovel the coal himself if it’d help. Their travels took them from Wisconsin to Minnesota and on. Sometimes the station was the only sign of civilization. This was a country that had survived a massive and horrible civil war; he’d read about tragic battles, desperate charges, countercharges, and hand-to-hand combat. This was also the land of adventure, according to the penny dreadfuls; six-gun shooters, sheriffs, and gangs of unruly cattle thieves. And savage Indians too.

No,
savage
was the wrong word. He remembered the Rain People of Australia. In the short time he’d spent with them,
they’d been far from savage. He’d long since decided it was best to judge who was savage by their actions.

Every second stop was a fort: outposts surrounded by nothingness as far as he could tell. There was little to do but wander from car to car. Read. Wait. Mr. Socrates had predicted that it would take four nights and four days. Impossible to imagine crossing such a large continent in such a short time, but he knew an airship would cross it at twice the speed.

The close quarters of the train made it particularly hard to hide his deformity, and only by acting the invalid were they allowed to keep his bed down and the curtains closed. Invalid? He could outwrestle any man on the train, except perhaps Tharpa. But being an invalid gave him time to read.