Authors: Arthur Slade
There was a sudden bubbling in the ocean.
“What’s that?” Colette asked. As they stared, several metallic barrels dropped in the water nearby and drifted down, lit by the sunlight. They curved toward the
Ictíneo
as though attracted to the submarine ship. More splashes; ten or fifteen other barrels plunged into the water.
“
Immersió! Immersió! Immersió!
” shouted the captain, a hint of panic in her voice. The Klaxon sounded, and the
Ictíneo
began to descend. Modo gripped the handrail. They hadn’t gone very far when the first container hit the side of the submarine ship with a
clang
.
Colette grabbed Modo’s hand and squeezed. She looked as terrified as he felt. He braced, expecting an explosion. They dove deeper and faster, but every half-minute or so there was another
clang
of a barrel hitting the
Ictíneo
.
“They aren’t detonating,” Colette said, perplexed.
“Maybe there’s a timed fuse.” Modo moved along the
railing, hand over hand, to peer out the porthole. One barrel had somehow attached itself just below the glass. “I wonder if they’re magnetic.” It was studded with bolts. It wouldn’t take much of an explosion to shatter the glass. Just as he motioned to Colette to come and see, the bolts shot out of the barrel and something that looked like a large red jellyfish burst out, unraveled, and fluttered to life, dispersing a cloud of bubbles. It grew into a billowing giant bladder, its cables still attached to the submarine ship. Another barrel burst, another huge jellyfish appeared.
“Balloons!” Modo cried, suddenly realizing what they were.
“They mean to drag us to the surface!” Colette shouted, and Captain Monturiol ran to the porthole to see for herself.
“They won’t be strong enough to defeat our engine,” she said. The
Ictíneo
shuddered as the propeller worked to drive them deeper into the ocean. More clanging could be heard; the enemy was relentless in sending down the barrels. The balloons pulled the
Ictíneo
higher and higher.
Modo turned to the captain. “We could go out in the aquasuits and cut the lines!” He was surprised at his own offer of help.
“Thank you, but there’s no time.” She shouted several commands and the ship swerved left and right. “Look! A barrel has detached!” The crew let out a cheer. But a moment later the helmsmen cried out, “We’ve lost our steering!”
Monturiol dashed to the wheel to find that it spun uselessly. The ship made a grinding, groaning noise and rose with such speed that Modo’s stomach lurched.
“Knock out the captain, Modo,” Griff whispered. “I cut the maneuvering cable. It’s Mr. Socrates on that ship. He expects you to act! Put her out of commission!”
“Who spoke?” demanded Colette. “Who said your name?”
Before Modo could answer, the
Ictíneo
hit the surface and Monturiol shouted more orders, now clearly panicked. Icarians armed with spearguns shoved their way past Modo and Colette, running up the stairs toward the hatch. Captain Monturiol paused to hit several levers above the helm, to no effect that Modo could see. Then Monturiol charged up the spiral stairs after her comrades, leaving her helmsman and a few other Icarians at the ship’s controls.
Modo and Colette hurried after her, the last of the passengers to climb out of the hatch.
Outside, the sky was a kaleidoscope of balloons, red, green and blue, each about twenty feet tall. The balloons blocked the sun and most of the view. Modo heard popping and hissing everywhere. As the comrades cut and slashed at the balloons with knives, Modo smelled gas. A single spark and they’d all be blown to kingdom come.
One balloon sagged. Behind it, just yards away from them, was the deck of the attacking ship. On its side was painted
Wyvern
. Men in gray uniforms stood in position all along the rail, rifles aimed at the submarine ship.
Two dogs with metal jaws glared down at them. Standing between the beasts, her metallic hand glittering in the sunlight, was an enemy Modo knew far too well.
“W
ho is she?” Colette asked.
“You don’t want to know.” Modo remembered how Miss Hakkandottir had pressed one of her metal fingers into his eye until it nearly popped. “She’s a member of the Clockwork Guild. Her name is Miss Hakkandottir.”
“You’re speaking in riddles, Modo.”
“The Guild is powerful, secret and evil. We don’t know who controls it, but their objective is to bring down the British Empire.”
“A lofty goal,” Colette said, laughing. Modo was impressed that she could joke, considering the circumstances.
“Put down your weapons, hold up your hands and surrender,” Hakkandottir said through a speaking trumpet.
“Never!” Captain Monturiol shot back. A few Icarians raised their spearguns while others brandished knives; they all looked rather pitiful to Modo. The soldiers who stared
down the rifle sights from the
Wyvern
didn’t blink. Every man and woman on the deck of the
Ictíneo
was a heartbeat away from a bullet.
“I assume you are Captain Delfina Monturiol,” Hakkandottir called. “Surely you recognize that it’s useless to resist.” She pointed at a soldier aiming a flare gun. “With one flare you will all be incinerated by exploding hydrogen. Don’t tempt me; I enjoy a good blaze.”
Just hearing her voice sent a shiver down Modo’s spine. The hounds’ jaws snapped menacingly. No barking, Modo remembered. They were silent killers.
“The crew at the helm have orders to dive if the balloons go up in flames,” Monturiol answered.
“And leave you behind?”
“As you have pointed out, we would be incinerated.”
“Then we have a stalemate. I see, though, that twenty-five of your crew members are on deck. Are the few who remain below enough to pilot your
Ictíneo?
Ah, but it is all too much work to even discuss this. Force will have to be applied. Now!”
Modo prepared to duck. The Icarians brandished their weapons. Hakkandottir went on smiling. Nothing happened, and her smile slowly turned to a grimace.
“I said now. You must act now!” she screamed through the speaking trumpet. Whom was she talking to?
Modo expected soldiers to climb up out of the water or to swing down from the warship, but no one moved. It was as though she were talking to someone … invisible. He gasped, realizing with gut-wrenching clarity exactly who was receiving those orders. You fool, Modo!
At that moment one of the Icarians had his speargun wrenched from his hands and was pushed into the sea. The gun floated in the air and Modo yelled, “Captain!” but before he could jump to Monturiol’s defense, the butt of the gun slammed into her skull and she collapsed. The gun clattered across the deck.
Griff could be anywhere! Modo pushed his way to where Monturiol lay. The Icarians gawked down at her, panic in their eyes.
Cut off the head of an organization and the body will die
, Mr. Socrates had told him many times. It appeared there was no second-in-command. They held their weapons bravely.
A shot from above struck the deck. “Enough! Surrender or die,” Miss Hakkandottir commanded. The Icarians looked at one another. In unison, they dropped their weapons and raised their arms.
Grappling hooks flew across the deck, and seconds later Guild soldiers rappelled down ropes onto the
Ictíneo
. Modo knelt and lifted Monturiol’s limp body.
A ramp was lowered from the ship to the submarine deck, and Modo, Colette, and the crew were prodded, shoved, and pushed onto the
Wyvern
and brought before Hakkandottir. Modo’s throat grew dry. Even though he had been wearing a different face the last time they’d met—his Peterkin face—he feared Hakkandottir might recognize him all the same.
“Who are you two?” she asked.
“That one is a British spy.” Griff’s voice was close to her shoulder.
“Which one?”
“That one!”
“I can’t see your finger, Griff. I assume you mean him.” She pointed a metal digit at Modo.
“Yes, he’s Modo. One of Mr. Socrates’ special projects. He can change his shape and his features. He looks fine now, but when his disguise fades he’s an ugly sot.”
Modo stiffened but said nothing.
Hakkandottir’s left eyebrow rose. “I’d heard such rumors. Extremely interesting! I want a detailed report later, Griff. And the woman?”
“Colette Brunet. A witch. A shrew. And a French spy.”
Colette was looking around at all the soldiers with their mouths closed. “Who is speaking? Show yourself!”
Griff let out a long high-pitched giggle.
“Colette, I should have told you,” Modo said slowly, knowing how ludicrous it sounded. “There has been an invisible man on board the
Ictíneo
. An invisible boy, really.”
Modo felt a burning slap across his face. He almost dropped Captain Monturiol.
“I’m not a boy! You take that back! I am Griff, Invisible Man the First!”
“Griff, Griff,” Miss Hakkandottir said quietly. “Now is not the time or place.” She stroked the metal skull of one of the hounds. “And was the lovely captain aware of your employer, Modo?”
“No,” Modo said. Hearing his name from Hakkandottir’s lips made him sick. He glanced down at Captain Monturiol. “She rescued me from a ship the
Ictíneo
had struck. She believes I’m a photographer.”
“So she is not as heartless as rumored. A pity. Well,
Modo, Colette, I am not one to conduct interrogations in the open.” She turned to her men. “Take them to the hold.”
With Griff’s cackle following them, Colette and Modo were led by Guild soldiers across the deck. Monturiol was growing heavy in Modo’s arms, so he held her tighter. They passed thick-barreled breech-loading guns, and arrays of other weapons and towers. At the top of one tower was a huge black flag, and on it, the face of a clock. The Clockwork Guild was brazen enough to openly sail the high seas.
M
r. Socrates stood in the office of the Admiralty. He was personally acquainted with First Naval Lord Milne, but the man was in India, and his second-in-command demanded that forms be filled out before he released a ship.
Mr. Socrates filled out the requisition forms as quickly as possible, Tharpa standing silently behind him. His frustration built with each stroke of his pen. He no longer cared whether his writing was legible.
“How many more forms?” he barked at the secretary, a thin man who had probably never been to sea.
“There are several more, sir,” the secretary said, delivering a large stack. “In triplicate.”
“Triplicate? Time is of the essence here! I told you that! I demand to see Second Sea Lord Hornby at once.”
“Sir, he is engaged until this evening. He will sign off on the papers then.”
Bureaucracy! Mr. Socrates wanted to shout. “For want of a piece of paper the kingdom was lost,” he hissed.
The secretary stared at him blankly.
Ah, it was pointless! He had hours of paperwork ahead of him. All this paper would one day be the downfall of the Empire. “Come, Tharpa,” he said. “We shall have to hire our own ship.”
C
olette breathed through her mouth. The hold smelled of coal dust, smoke, and carcasses, though there weren’t any bodies she could see. Perhaps those on board had used the room to slaughter animals for their meals.
One Guild soldier remained standing silently at the door. If her hands hadn’t been tied behind her back and then tethered to her ankles, she would have grabbed something and bashed Modo’s head in.
“Colette? Colette?” Modo whispered. He too was tied up, and Captain Monturiol was bound and unconscious next to them.
“You kept a vital secret from me!” she snarled.
“I—I did. I’m sorry. Griff approached me yesterday and convinced me that he was a member of—of a British organization. He had followed us from New York. He knew things only a British agent would know.”
“He’s invisible and could’ve overheard any of your private conversations, or our conversations, for that matter.”
“He said you murdered Wyle.”
“Who?”
“One of our agents.”
“That sounds more like something he would do. What was his name again?”
“Griff.”
“Griff? What sort of name is that?” Colette tried to twist her wrists out of the ropes. “I shook your hand, Modo. I gave you my word.”
“We’re agents from different countries, Colette. We’re actors; you know that.”
“You should have trusted me.” She drew in a deep breath, seeking calm. “How did they find us?”
“He was the one who stole my telegraph. He must have somehow used it.”
“So you
were
able to get messages out?”
“I sent them, but I have no idea whether they were received.”
“You’ve hidden much from me. I believed we were partners.”
“We are.”
“We were!” Colette huffed. Don’t get angry, she told herself. Collect information. Reassess the situation. Then act. “How does this Griff stay invisible?”
“His body has been chemically altered so that every cell bends light. It makes him invisible to human eyes.” Modo coughed and Colette looked over. His face was a little red. And distorted. “I—I think the drugs may have affected his
mind,” Modo continued. “He seems a little off, if you know what I mean. And he’s got a temper.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Colette saw Modo’s head snap back as if forced. He groaned.
“Yes, I’m easily angered by lower creatures,” a voice said. “I’m the only one—Invisible Man the First. You don’t know what that’s like.”
Colette scanned the hold. Where was the voice coming from?
“Griff,” Modo said, “we shook hands.”
“Yes, you foolish beast, we did. Are you a child?” A rope flew up from the floor and looped around Modo’s neck. It began to tighten.
“Stop that! Stop!” Colette cried.
“Shut your gob,” Griff ordered. “Modo, your strength is something—I saw you rip open that door to the submarine ship.” He gave the rope another good yank. “And I’ve watched you change the actual shape and size of your bones. My guess is that you can easily slither out of these ropes. So I’m going to tie this particular one around your neck, nice and tight. If you move too much, you’ll choke.” The end of the rope floated up and knotted around a steel girder, forcing Modo to stand on the tips of his toes.