The Hunchback Assignments (22 page)

“Thank you for your unsolicited opinion,” Hakkandottir said.

Octavia never forgot a face, and she had seen this one with Mr. Socrates several months ago. He was a member of the Permanent Association, but at that time his withered arm had no fancy attachments. “Gibbons,” she said, for she rarely forgot a name, either. “Named after the ape, I assume. Is your new hand especially designed to stab people in the back?”

“You witch!” he spat.

Hakkandottir smiled. “She is a clever little serpent, but
ignore her. We have more pressing concerns. Do you have news, Fuhr?”

“Construction is complete. I must take the helm.”

“Then do so. When our work is finished, you will dump the instrument in the Thames. We do not want them to have our wondrous creation, is that understood?”

Fuhr nodded and said, “Understood perfectly, but understand this: Don’t be late collecting me. I’m not much of a swimmer anymore.”

“I’ll be punctual, I promise. I’ll summon the
Vesuvius
now to ensure my arrival. Gibbons, go to the observational platform. You won’t want to miss the show.”

When the two men had left, Hakkandottir went to a table in the corner. On it was a collection of peculiar objects: pieces of clockwork, a phonograph, darkened goggles, a telegraph machine. With her metal fingers, she tapped out a message on the telegraph. Octavia assumed it was wireless. She knew Mr. Socrates owned a similar device.

“Would you care to let me in on your plans?” she asked, trying to shake the henchman off again.

“We are about to strike a blow that will bring Britannia to her knees.”

“How exciting.”

“You mock me, child. Our interview is done.” Hakkandottir clicked her fingers together while saying to her accomplice, “Kill her. Don’t leave a mess.” She met Octavia’s eyes as she slipped on a long overcoat and left.

The man tightened his grip on Octavia’s arms.

“You don’t really want to murder me,” she said.

The man jerked her forward a few steps. “I’m sorry, miss.” His breath smelled like rotten sardines. “Orders is orders. Any other day I’d just give you a ’ow do ya do.”

“Let’s pretend today is one of those days.”

He chuckled gruffly. “It don’t work that way, miss. Now, I’m not one of them brutal types; I’m not wantin’ you to feel the pain. You got any partic’lar way you prefer? Smotherin’ leaves a lovely corpse. Or ’ow about a quick crick of the neck?”

“How about old age?”

He laughed again. “You’re a brave one, and I admire that, miss, but I think the crick crack is best for both of us.”

She tried to elbow him in the stomach, but he squeezed her arms even tighter. “Now, now.” When he released one arm to get a better hold on her shoulders, she slumped down. She pretended to weep, hoping for an ounce of pity in his heart. It only encouraged him to hurry.

“I’ll be quick, miss, I promise.” He moved his hand to her neck. “Me father taught me this. On chickens, of course—’e weren’t no murderous sort—but the principle’s the same.” He now had a tight arm hold on her head, but her left hand was free. She snaked it into the opening in her dress, feeling about for the stiletto. Finding the handle she pulled it out and made to stab him in the leg, but he caught her hand and twisted it so hard, she let out a cry. The stiletto clattered to the floor. “You’re quick! Can’t blame you for trying.”

Something boomed outside like a shell exploding, rattling the windows of the train car.

“I’d better put the speed on or I’ll miss the show. They promised it’d be a big one,” the man said. Octavia pulled and kicked and tried to bite him. “Best if you don’t fight. It’ll all be over in—”

The door banged open, striking the wall. Fuhr, sweaty and pale, stumbled in. He was disheveled, his clothes covered with a cloak, and had lost half his hair. He jerked his head, but his gaze didn’t focus on anything. In fact, to Octavia, he looked blind. Then his eyes seemed to focus and he fell to his knees. “Trouble,” he moaned, “trouble out there.”

“Wot is it, sir?”

“The gas. Exploded. The experiment. Failed.” He put his hands on the desk and crawled to his feet, his sides heaving. Blotches scarred his face, as though he’d been splashed by acid. He stumbled closer to them, gloved hands squeezed into fists. She heard a smack and a groan. Her captor fell back.

“Wot’s that for, sir?” he cried, dropping Octavia. When she tried to get up, he kicked her in the stomach. She curled into a ball and looked up to see Fuhr knocking the man’s head back. He smacked him a third time, straight on the jaw. The man fell, cracking his head on the desk on the way down to the floor, where he lay in a heap.

Octavia got to her knees, holding her stomach. Fuhr’s face seemed to be bubbling. He lurched forward as though he was about to fall on her. Where, where was the stiletto? There!

“Stay back!” she hissed as she snatched it from the floor and pointed it at him.

He blinked and staggered, found his balance. “Octavia,” he said in a familiar voice, “it’s me. Modo. I … I’m here to save you.”

“M
odo?”

To his relief, Octavia’s look of horror turned to one of stark confusion. “But your face! You looked
just
like Fuhr.”

He turned away, fumbled for his mask, and shoved it back into place, quickly tightening the ties. “A mere trick: a sleight of face, instead of hand.”

“It was more than that.”

He rubbed the sideburns from his face and showed them to her. “Dog hair. From a hound. I fought one of those beasts off just now. It nearly devoured my arm.” He displayed his torn sleeve, stained with patches of his blood. “I shoved a steel bar in its mouth.”

She was still gazing doubtfully at him when another loud bang shook the train car, followed by an engine coming to life. “Later you’ll have to explain that little face
trick,” she said, a hard edge to her voice. “You’re keeping a secret from me. But we’d better see what’s happening out there.”

Modo pushed the door open a few inches. They could see men backing away from something that moved noisily inside the swirling smoke and steam. Hakkandottir, Hyde, and another man observed from a scaffold ten feet above the action. The second man turned.

“That’s Mr. Gibbons!”

“Yes. And he has a brand-new mechanized arm.”

“So
he
betrayed Mr. Socrates.” Modo clenched his fists.

“There’s not much we can do about that right now. What are they waiting for?”

At that moment, Fuhr rose up out of the great cloud of steam, standing on a footplate, harnessed upright to a protective steel shield that curved around his back. He puffed on a cigar and manipulated a number of large levers. Two metal arms with pincers for fingers swung into the air, grabbed onto the edge of the cavern, and pulled the rest of the machine higher. Each arm was constructed of rectangular metal boxes, and inside each box a child was bolted. The machine swayed from side to side, metal screeching as it rose, revealing more of its torso, and then Fuhr pulled back on the levers. A giant foot pressed onto the rocky floor and the machine stood at its full height.

Modo gaped at the sickening sight. It was fully fifty feet high and looked like the skeleton of a human body, with Fuhr at the head. There were even glowing filaments running like veins through the appendages and rib cage and up
the spine of the structure. The shoulder bolts held the children tightly in their metal frames.

Each time Fuhr jerked on a lever, the children crouched, then pushed and straightened their backs as one, and made the giant move. At least a hundred children powered the machine. It boggled Modo to think they could be strong enough, even in their altered forms, to move all that iron. He couldn’t see any sign of another engine, though.

“Is Oppie trapped in there?” Modo couldn’t even begin to comprehend the boy’s terror.

“I imagine so. Along with Ester. It’s the most wretched thing I’ve ever seen,” Octavia said.

Fuhr made the arms swing up and down. Two metal claws—the hands—opened and closed. The giant lumbered forward.

“It’s a wicker man,” Modo exclaimed.

“What?”

“I saw an illustration—a giant wicker man that the Gauls would use as a cage for human sacrifices. They’d burn the people inside.” He stared at the machine. “That schematic I stole from the Balcombe house! We thought it was a suit of armor. We just didn’t have the right dimensions.”

Workers were shining lights on the machine, revealing a larger square at the heart of it. The groaning figure inside the square was not a child, but a young man.

“That must be Prince Albert!” Modo said.

“You’re right! The prince at the heart of a horrible
machine. This Clockwork Guild certainly loves its symbols. The papers will have a heyday!”

Hyde staggered up to the giant in awe, his arms raised as though he wanted to embrace it. His face had a look of absolute joy. “Dr. Hyde!” Hakkandottir shouted through a speaking trumpet. “Step back! We have to complete our tests!” But he still walked about, reaching to touch the metal ankles of the machine, hugging its calves. “Cornelius! Come back to me.” He snapped out of his trance and climbed back up to the platform, stealing another glance over his shoulder and shaking his head in wonder.

“Well, that was odd,” Octavia said. “I just don’t understand what this machine is meant for.”

“I … I don’t know. And how do they intend to get it out of here?”

Fuhr pulled the levers, grinning. One gigantic arm reached out; and the pincers lifted a barrel and squeezed until it snapped in two, spraying water across the ground. The giant’s arms swung about, knocking half the scaffolding over. Workers scattered and Fuhr let out a barking laugh.

Hakkandottir raised her speaking trumpet again. “The system is functioning properly. You may proceed, Mr. Fuhr!”

With that, Fuhr manipulated the levers so that both of the giant’s arms were bent as though it were flexing its muscles. The ceiling was only a few feet above it now. The left arm shot straight up, driving the pincers directly into the rock, which cracked. The right arm followed; then both
arms struck again and again, causing dirt and shattered stones to rain down. A beam of sunlight shot through the cavern’s ceiling, illuminating the giant’s gleaming arms.

When the opening was large enough, Fuhr shouted, “For the Clockwork Guild!” The giant grabbed onto something outside with its claws and began a slow, deliberate climb out of the cavern and into the streets of London.

M
odo and Octavia watched as the giant pulled its iron foot through the hole and disappeared. It was as if the thing had never existed; as though they’d imagined it all. Octavia put her hand to her mouth. “I … I never dreamed I’d ever see anything …” She tightened her grip on his shoulder. “We must stop it, of course, but I haven’t the faintest…”

“We could go back down the tunnel the way we’ve come and take a cab to …” He paused. His mind wasn’t working properly. It would take far too long to travel that far. “Never mind.”

She pointed at the hole in the roof of the cavern. “That’s the quickest way out.”

Modo nodded. “It’ll take some doing.”

Scaffolding, at least six stories high, stood somewhat shakily below the opening. They’d have to risk their necks,
but the top of the scaffolding looked close enough for them to leap up and grab the lip of the hole.

Modo heard a pop and ducked, pulling Octavia down with him. They peeked through the door again, in time to see Gibbons holding up a fizzing champagne bottle and splashing its contents into glasses. Several of the men in greatcoats and Hakkandottir clinked glasses.

“Let’s leave them to their celebration,” Octavia said.

They stole out of the train car, edging along the wall to the corner of the scaffolding, and began climbing. Modo was impressed that Octavia was able to match his speed. Soon they were clinging to the thin metal bars three-quarters of the way up.

He kept an eye on the people below. Hyde was still staring at the open hole contentedly. Hakkandottir shouted orders while her men set dynamite among the machines used to create the giant.

Then, as though she had felt his eyes on her, she looked up directly at Modo and shouted. Two men fired pistols, bullets zinged off the wall behind Modo and Octavia.

“Faster!” Octavia hissed. “Climb!” They scrambled higher and higher. They hoped the coal smoke and steam hanging in the air would help to hide them.

The guns had stopped firing and Modo paused to see why. Octavia kept climbing. He could just make out Hakkandottir and Hyde, walking toward the train car. She put her metal hand on Hyde’s shoulder. The possibility that she was being affectionate toward him made Modo feel sick.

It occurred to him that they could set dynamite under
the scaffolding’s supports. Just then, he felt the scaffolding shaking. He looked down. A shape lunged out of the mist below.

“You won’t tell anyone about this,” Gibbons said, using his powerful new arm to launch himself the last few yards and latch onto Modo’s ankle. His metal fingers squeezed so hard that Modo let out a yell.

“Traitor!” Modo shouted, trying to shake him off.

“Just a matter of shifting perspectives!” Gibbons spat out. His eyes blazed behind his fogged glasses. He pulled so hard that Modo nearly lost his grip. They were both going to fall.

“Kick him in the head,” Octavia yelled from above.

Modo feinted a kick at Gibbons’s head, then stomped on the man’s good hand. Gibbons let go of the scaffolding, but kept a tight hold on Modo, clutching both his legs.

Modo remembered Mr. Socrates’ pocket belt, and drew the first thing he could put his fingers on. He pointed it at Gibbons, realizing too late that it was the fountain pen.

Gibbons paused to look at it and was just about to laugh when Modo pressed the button and black ink shot out, staining Gibbons’s face. His skin began to sizzle. He screamed, clutching his eyes as he fell to the ground.

Modo, frightened of what was still dripping from the pen, dropped it and climbed up to Octavia.

“Next time, kick him in the head,” she said. At the top of the scaffolding, Modo was heartened by the early evening sunlight.