The Hunchback Assignments (24 page)

Modo leapt from the shoulder to the head of the giant and slugged Fuhr in the jaw, knocking the cigar out of his mouth. Fuhr lashed out at Modo, his hand clicking an inch from Modo’s throat because the harness prevented him from reaching any further. Modo dashed to the other side of Fuhr and struck another blow, then backed away.

“Who are you?” Fuhr shouted, pulling on a lever.

Modo had a sudden thought: What if he knocked Fuhr unconscious? Would the machine collapse and crush the
children? He heard something behind him, and turned just in time to be swatted into the air by the giant’s hand. He landed at the far end of the shoulder deck, slipping off its edge. He hung there by his fingers until he found a place to dig in his toes so he could cling to the side of the shoulder. He was able to swing partway down the back, out of Fuhr’s sight.

From there he had an excellent view of the filaments in the spine, and the energy that was flowing through them, making the machine walk and grasp. The wires seemed to glow more brightly than ever. But what was the true source?

He climbed down a bit lower, looking at the blank-eyed children. The tincture had changed them, their faces set in cold anger. He thought of Oscar Featherstone and how Oscar felt that the other side of him, the side that attacked his father, was full of rage. Anger. That was what connected these children.

Modo clambered over the ribs of the shuddering giant as it lurched left, right, left, right, like a drunken sailor. Its shoulders bumped Victoria Tower and it lumbered through trees, snapping off thick branches.

He examined the twisted wolf like faces of the children, their hate-filled, blank eyes. Maybe the anger was part of what powered them. And if it was, how could he stop it?

He had his own anger; he knew what it was like to be forsaken, forgotten. They had that in common. Always hungry, always wanting a warmer place to sleep. Somehow Dr. Hyde had opened the tap to this in each child. It became clear to Modo what he must do.

He swung down and stopped directly in front of a girl
with blond hair, and hung there by one hand. With his other hand he removed his mask, revealing the full ugliness of his face. The girl’s eyes were blank, staring past him, and he thought perhaps his intuition had been wrong.

“I understand,” he said. “I know your anger. You don’t have to listen to the voices.”

There was no reaction. Maybe the tincture’s hold was too strong to break. After all, it had forced Oscar to kill his own father.

No! There had to be a way. Modo reached a trembling hand and cupped the girl’s cheek. “There are people who care about you. Who love you,” he whispered. “I care about you.” The girl’s face softened and she looked directly at him and did not flinch at the sight of his face. She let out a sigh and stopped moving her legs up and down, stopped powering her section of the machine. The filaments around her grew dull and the gyroscope slowed to a stop.

Modo moved over to the next child, a boy, and looked right into his brown eyes. “I understand you. Your anger. Listen to your own voice.” This time it happened more quickly. The boy looked, he saw, he understood and slowed his movements.

“I understand,” Modo said, crawling from child to child. Each one looked at his face and didn’t shudder. He smiled at each. “There is a better way.” They began to whisper to one another as though passing on a long-forgotten secret. The whispers grew to a chattering. Soon the giant’s legs slowed and stopped. More and more children began to babble.

The machine stood still.

Modo had brought the giant to a stop only a few feet past Parliament and teetering on the edge of the Thames. If it fell, all the children would drown.

Fuhr was shouting from above.

Modo put his mask back on and climbed up. Fuhr was out of his harness, running around the shoulder deck yelling at the children. Then he pulled on the levers. “Move! Move!”

Bullets ricocheted off the metal plates of the giant. Modo turned, intending to shout at the soldiers to stop but none of them were firing. There was a droning in the distance. The bullets seemed to be coming out of the very air itself. Modo dashed across the deck to give Fuhr a push, but the man whipped around. “You! You’re Modo! Gibbons told us about an agent who wore a mask. I’ve torn bigger men in two.”

In one leap Fuhr was next to Modo, unleashing a steam-powered punch that smashed his mask to pieces and knocked him to the edge of the giant’s shoulder. Modo threw a hand up to his cheek, feeling as though his jaw had been broken. His face! It was exposed to Fuhr, to the world. He thought of leaping across to Parliament and escaping, but instead rose to his feet and turned to his enemy.

When Fuhr got his first clear look at Modo’s face, he hesitated. “Are you the devil?” he asked. “No! You can’t be. Not even the devil could be so ugly.”

Modo had expected him to be cruel, but his words still cut deep into him.

The thrumming was closer now, and behind Fuhr, Modo could see a conical gray airship drifting out of the
fog. Steel plating protected the front and a large rotor powered it. Hakkandottir was in the carriage brandishing a rifle. Three men stood around her, including Dr. Hyde, who gazed sadly at the giant. Beside him a man wearing goggles lowered a rope ladder. “Jump, Mr. Fuhr! Jump!” he hollered.

“I’ll track you down, devil boy,” Fuhr said, giving him a sideways look. “And I’ll throttle you until your ugly face turns blue. That’s my promise.” He leapt, grabbing onto the dangling ladder.

Hakkandottir fired at Modo, almost hitting him. He was still so angry at Fuhr, at all of them for what they had done to the children, that he bounded to the edge of the giant, jumped, and latched onto Fuhr’s leg. The airship drew away, taking them over the Thames. Fuhr kicked at him, but Modo tightened his grip. “You won’t escape!” he cried.

Hakkandottir aimed her rifle, shouting, “Get out of the way, Fuhr! I need a clear shot.”

Fuhr reached down to pry Modo off his leg, but just then, one side of the ladder snapped and they swung outward, dangling by the remaining half. Fuhr growled and tried to climb higher, but the rest of the rope broke. Fuhr’s hands found Modo’s throat as they tumbled through the sky and fell into the Thames.

A
s they hit the water, Fuhr’s hold was too strong for Modo to break. Modo had been prevented from sucking in a final gasp of air, and now they were sinking into the murky, cold water. All Modo could see was his enemy’s angry face. Fuhr’s was a two-handed death grip; they would both be dragged to the bottom, thanks to his metal appendages. Modo pounded against the man’s enormous chest. They sank deeper and deeper, until Modo felt his lungs would explode.

Fuhr’s right arm bubbled and his grasp suddenly loosened. He shook the arm several times, but it stiffened and fell uselessly to his side. The water must have affected it, Modo thought.

Modo brought his legs up against Fuhr’s stomach. Fuhr’s lips were moving and his hold on Modo’s throat grew even tighter. Modo gave him a two-footed kick, broke
his grip, and flailed away. Fuhr lunged at Modo, but he sank heavily into the depths.

Modo’s lungs demanded air. He kicked, his frenzied thrashings taking him in circles. A realization burned: If I hadn’t been trapped inside Ravenscroft, I’d bloody well know how to swim.

Tharpa’s voice came to him then, as though he were speaking directly into his ear:
No matter the situation, be calm.
Modo stopped his thrashings and allowed himself to drift. He let out the tiniest bubble and noted which direction it went. Up! That way is up! He kicked with purpose now. The surface was far above him, but the light was getting closer.

He kicked and kicked. Mrs. Finchley! he thought. Octavia! He churned his limbs, trying to reach the world above him, but he had used the last of his reserves. He couldn’t stop from gulping in a mouthful of the putrid Thames. And another. He gulped until his lungs were full and he sank.

O
ctavia had followed the airship on foot up to the top of the river wall, right next to Parliament. The moment after Modo fell from the sky, she yanked off her dress and dove into the Thames. She swam to a cluster of bubbles, then shot straight down, her eyes open and stinging in the dirty water. She spotted more bubbles and followed them down, down, until she felt she could go no further. She scissor-kicked to the surface, gasped in a deep breath, and dove again. The gloomy water gave up no sign of Modo. She began to feel sick to her stomach.

She searched the water for more bubbles, but saw none, so she kicked into the depths, then back up for another gulp of air, and straight down again.

She’d spent months training alongside Tharpa, including learning to swim.
Control your breath
, he’d told her.
Let it out slowly and you’ll go deeper.
She did this now, kicking
and kicking to the bottom of the river. After what felt like hours she finally saw a form nearby and propelled herself toward it. The pressure hurt her ears. She grabbed at the ragged shape. It had arms and legs, but it was too dark to see it. She pulled and strained every muscle in her body as she swam up, dragging the form with her.

She broke the surface and inhaled madly, then looked at the body in her hands and caught a glimpse of ragged red hair. Modo? Her eyes stung with the filthy water, her vision blurred, so his face appeared twisted and grotesque. The world was silent—all she heard was her heartbeat.

Her feet found purchase in the riverbank and she dragged him to the wharf. A pair of hands lifted Modo from her arms and she looked up to see Tharpa. “Do you need aid?” he said. She shook her head, trembling uncontrollably. He carried Modo a few feet away.

Octavia climbed onto the wharf, coughing, her hair plastered over her eyes, so she only glimpsed Modo. She got the impression of a jutting lip, a bloated cheek, a drooping eye. She wiped away the foul water with her fingers. There was something wrong with her eyes. Tharpa was pushing down on Modo’s chest and stomach with tremendous force. When he saw Octavia watching he shifted, blocking her view of Modo.

She coughed and belched water, then fell back on the hard planks of the dock, closing her eyes. A soldier brought her a blanket and said something, but her ears were still blocked. She’d swallowed half the Thames. All that disgusting water was inside her. Lying on her side, Octavia spat out whatever she could bring up. Then two shiny
military riding boots stepped into her line of vision. It took her a moment to realize they were filled by someone.

“You did well.” Mr. Socrates sounded as though he were talking from the far end of a tunnel. “Octavia. You are a perfect angel.”

“Angel?” Her voice was ragged. Her ears popped painfully and the noise of the world rushed in.

“Agent,” Mr. Socrates corrected. “We don’t need angels here.” And with that, he laughed.

“He lives!” Tharpa shouted. “He draws breath!”

“Thank you,” Octavia said to no one in particular, and heaved a great sigh of relief.

F
uhr sank upright, his feet landing firmly on the bottom of the Thames. His lungs yearned for air. He was too heavy to swim, but he lifted his legs and pushed forward, finding solid rocks buried in the silt. He took another step and another. A shell hadn’t killed him; bullets hadn’t killed him; some ugly devil-child wouldn’t be his end.

He saw the posts of a dock only twenty yards away and he slouched toward them. He would climb the dock and finish destroying his enemy and anyone else who stood in his way. Twenty long yards. He could make it.

Water seeped into the coal chamber in his right leg and the limb bubbled to a stop. He lifted his left leg, but slipped, and was forced to crawl on the bottom of the river, using only one arm and one leg. He was fifteen yards away. Fourteen. He would climb the dock and strangle the boy.

The chamber in his right leg died. He dragged himself
with one hand, digging deep into the riverbed, an inch at a time. The coal fire sputtered and died in that arm, too. He was motionless. He wanted to scream in anger.

He had to breathe. He couldn’t wait another second.

All that surrounded him was water.

M
odo spluttered and gagged and drew in several gasping breaths. He gradually became aware that his head rested on hard planks and a dull light was shining in his eyes. It was the sun, shrouded by fog. A moment later it was blotted out by a dark shape. He blinked and he saw that Tharpa was floating there, his lips moving silently. Modo’s ears crackled and he heard the words “Young sahib, are you well?”

Modo nodded slowly and let out another wet cough. His hand went to his face. Tharpa handed him a scarf, which he pulled up to his nose. With Tharpa’s help, he slowly sat up. It took him another few minutes before he muttered, “Must stand.”

Tharpa helped him to his feet and allowed Modo to lean on him. The scene around Modo came into focus. He was at the wharf near the Houses of Parliament, Victoria
Tower casting a long shadow. A line of soldiers in crimson frock coats had set up barricades at the west end of the park to keep the curious away. It all seemed so oddly ordinary to Modo, as though he saw this sort of thing every day.

The giant stood at the edge of the Houses of Parliament, right next to the Thames, as if it had been there for a hundred years, frozen in position with one metallic arm hanging at its side. The other arm was caught in the topmost branches of a tree.

Soldiers in black uniforms climbed wooden ladders, working with wrenches and saws to release the children, many of whom already lay on the ground, or sat, leaning against one another. Other soldiers had begun to dismantle the top of the frame, loading the pieces onto wagons and driving them to the wharf. The prince was already gone; Modo assumed he had been the first to be rescued.

Mr. Socrates stood near the giant, leaning on his walking stick. Occasionally, those officers in black uniforms would come up to receive commands from him, then march double-time to their tasks.