by Terry, Mark
Ida watched from the far side of the room. “What are you building now?”
“Is resonant transformer device, but more practical. More focused,” Tesla said smiling. He held up a long glass pipe. “Yes… large kerosene lamps. That is it.” He looked at Grgor and Simon and patted the glass softly.
Tesla smiled at Ida when she approached, and the two cousins left the room.
“Layered glass. That will do it. It will help focus weapon. Make it smaller.” He winked. “Like beam.”
Beyond the walls, the train horn gave three short blasts.
“It sounds like Thomas is leaving,” Ida said, almost sadly.
“Is backing up,” Tesla said as he wrapped the tubing in cloth.
“It fits.”
Tesla nodded. “Is good enough. Will need,” he looked at Ida, “protection. But it will work.”
“So when are we leaving?” Ida asked sourly.
“Not today. Maybe in morning,” Tesla muttered absently. He carefully inserted what looked like the components of his brush arc, wireless bulb into one fixture, then the glass tube inside the metal cylinder surrounded by strips of cloth.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked.
Tesla looked at her with a slight smile in his eyes. “For Edison to come back.”
Interlude 59
Saturday, March 18, 1893, 8:31 a.m.
Union Depot, Kansas City
Thomas Edison stood on the roofed porch of the armored observation car. The 4-4-2 boiler built up a head of steam and the horn sounded again in three short bursts as it backed slowly out of Union Station. Crossbow stood next to him, the arbalest across his back and a Sharps Rifle across his chest. Edison leaned out the side of the platform and looked up. He could see Scabbard holding a Henry at the ready on the rooftop. His two automatic rifles could rain more bullets in under a minute than a squad of soldiers. The early morning sun sat low in the clear eastern sky. The smell of the nearby KC Smelting and Refining Factory stood out, even over the soot from the engine smokestack.
Edison turned and opened the rear door. “Steady now! Eyes on,” he barked.
Inside the observation car, Winchester winked and poked his long rifle out one of the apertures cut in the boilerplate. Chester Arthur, who stood on the opposite side, grunted and held his six guns, glancing back toward the engine.
Edison leaned on the railing in front of him, watching the terrain intently. A water tower neared on the north side. A half mile behind that, Johns Hopkins Hospital stood on a rising hill, its rounded spirals reaching high into the sky and casting long morning shadows on the boulevards that graced its perimeter. Thick strands of power lines crisscrossed the majestic view of the imposing structure and the occasional horse-drawn carriage ambled along.
Further east, one could just make out the colonnades and white stucco of the Jazz Hill district, some of the city’s first answer to the population boom. These apartments were in stark contrast to the apartment high rises of other metropolitan centers such as New York and Chicago. Kansas City instead had built two- and three-story apartment structures closely together with multi-decked verandas in the colonnaded porch style that had become popular.
Edison straightened as movement caught his eye. He focused on the tower and saw more movement against the glare of the low sun behind it. Finally, he could see a silhouette in a wide brim hat with guns holstered on each hip, the rest of the man in the shadows.
Edison pointed. He leaned out and shouted up at Scabbard, “There!”
The Pinkerton was already moving, guiding his rifle into place. He opened fire, sending sixteen .44 Henry rimfires into the water tower. Splinters flew off the side of the structure and water streamed in a long arc.
Crossbow moved out from under the porch roof, cocked his Sharps, and leveled it at the tower. The figure moved back from the edge and out of sight. The Pinkerton grunted and moved inside the car. He strode through to the platform and then into the engine where he stood next to the engineer. When the engineer looked at him, he winked and hung the crossbow on the door, peering out the window. In a moment, the water tower passed outside the window. The Pinkerton watched for sign of movement and then it came.
The figure moved to the edge of the tower. Crossbow fired, and for a split second, he thought he had hit his target. An incredible shot. But the sight he beheld did not turn out to be his target falling from the water tower. His target had, in fact, leaped from the water tower. He tracked the object through the sky with his gun sights. An ear-splitting sound came from the roof of the engine. Its metal hull buckled slightly and two side windows shattered from the impact. Crossbow only stared at the ceiling in astonishment as footsteps came after a long moment, crossing the engine towards the rear. He dropped the rifle, grabbed his crossbow and slid a bolt into place, eyes on the ceiling.
Scabbard reloaded his Henry repeater when he felt, more than heard, the impact on the engine behind him. He swung around and observed the Gunslinger rising to his full height and striding towards him. The Pinkerton laughed, gripped a repeater in each hand, and opened fire, raking the roof of the train, leading the Gunslinger into the hellfire. But it didn’t work as expected. One moment the dark figure stepped into the path of the onslaught and the next moment he bounded aside.
Edison moved into the observation car and looked up at the ceiling. He heard the Pinkerton firing and watched in grim astonishment as bullets ripped through the oak ceiling, tearing up the wall and the door leading to the engine. He reflexively stepped back flat against the door he had just entered.
Scabbard screamed, gritted his teeth, and swiveled his rifles wildly back and forth. The man in black before him scrambled low and slid off the side of the car.
Edison, standing motionless, didn’t relax as the gunfire stopped. He snapped his head left in response to a sound coming from outside the car where the Gunslinger clung, with no apparent hand holds, to the side of the train like a spider.
Chester Arthur heard the clamor on the railcar wall and fired. “Bloody boat-licker!” he shouted.
Scabbard had reloaded his rifles and approached the edge of the car, firing both weapons again, but the spidery figure stayed too low and too flush to the side of the train to get hit. The bullets smacked the ceiling of the railcar, ripping its oak panels to shreds and penetrating the wooden structure underneath.
Winchester spun around in a low crouch as bullets ricocheted inside the car. He watched Chester Arthur cartwheel and land in a heap, the walls sprayed with his blood.
The crazed Pinkerton on the roof continued to try to hit the Gunslinger as he moved towards the front of the train. The Pinkerton focused only on the moving figure below him as bullets chewed the roof apart.
Edison covered his head as shards of metal fell. The door opened behind him and Winchester jerked Edison back onto the porch. The repeating gunfire paused as a gloved hand clasped the corner of the railcar. Winchester moved so he stood between the ominous hand and Edison. Then the Pinkerton took a standing rifle position and backed up through the threshold he had just pulled the inventor across. Winchester kept Edison at his heels as he backpedaled. They heard Scabbard swear, and the air smelled of cordite.
Two legs in black stove pipe boots landed on the rear platform as the figure swung down onto the covered porch. Winchester fired and blew off a chunk of the left boot.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” the Gunslinger shouted. “Good shootin’, Tex!”
Edison looked up over the Gunslinger through the shattered roof as Scabbard drew his long blade and moved to the edge.
Wedderburn stepped through the door into the railcar, one six gun aimed from the right hip. The Pinkerton in front of him fired. The bullet struck the doorjamb.
Edison and Winchester were nearly across the length of the car. Edison glanced over his shoulder at the door leading to the engine. Scabbard leaped down, sword in the roof guard position, and swung the blade as his feet hit the platform.
Without turning or loo
king back, the Gunslinger’s left hand flew up and caught the descending sword in the air inches from his head while his gun hand swiveled and pointed back over his shoulder. Wedderburn shot the Pinkerton between the eyes and Scabbard wobbled backward on dead legs.
Edison watched in horror as Winchester fired his rifle again. The Gunslinger tilted his body to the left, and the shot hit the corpse behind him. The dead Pinkerton swayed on his feet, and the bullet passed through his chest, flipping him back over the landing rail and onto the tracks. Winchester cocked the rifle and fired again twice in quick succession. Wedderburn sidestepped each shot.
Edison went through the door to the engine and met Crossbow coming at him on the platform between the two cars. The door behind Edison slammed as something large and heavy landed against it. Another shot rang out, followed by a scream.
The inventor stepped to the right side of the door so he could open it and not be in the way. A short count, and the Pinkerton raised his crossbow. Edison turned the handle and pushed open the door. Crossbow fired. With one arm, the Gunslinger had Winchester raised a foot off the floor. With his back to them, he tore one of the Pinkerton’s arms out of its socket with his free arm.
The bolt struck Wedderburn in the throat from behind. The Gunslinger didn’t pause, but finished tearing the arm out of its socket with a swift tug and dropped the mangled body. He turned around, still holding the arm and looked down at the arrow protruding from his neck. He leaned forward slightly, spat, and smiled at the Pinkerton who was sliding another bolt into his weapon.
Edison backed up to stand against the door into the engine. The Gunslinger looked at him, then back at the Pinkerton. He moved forward with the bloody arm in his grasp. “I’m going to beat you to death with this,” he said.
Edison watched as the Pinkerton fired another bolt. This one struck the Gunslinger in the chest, but it didn’t slow him down. Wedderburn hit the Pinkerton in the chin with an uppercut so vicious it lifted him off his feet. Crossbow’s head bounced off the ceiling and he fell onto his back. The Gunslinger reached down, grabbed one ankle of the unconscious Pinkerton, and dragged him back into the observation car. He gave Edison a wink and then slowly pulled the steel bolt from his neck with a wet crunch. He gently closed the door behind him with his free hand. A moment later came a scream from the other side of the door.
Edison paused, then turned and opened the door to the engine. He paused again, looking at the engineer.
“What’s going on?” the man asked.
Edison opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He stepped back and shut the door to the engine. He stood for a moment, unsure of what to do. Then he looked around and noticed handrails that led up to the roof of the railcar. He climbed.
On the roof, Edison walked forward and tried to look down into the railcar through the damage. Then he looked up. His face showed alarm, then fear, and he ran back towards the engine. He leaped back down onto the platform between the car and engine and threw open the door.
“Stop the train!” he yelled.
The engineer turned, reached out, and pulled the main brake.
As the train squealed to a halt, Edison and the engineer stepped out onto the life guards on the side of the engine and leaned out.
Edison stared as he spoke. “Back to Kansas City.”
The engineer gawked. A hundred yards in front of them the tracks had been ripped up and bent backward a hundred and eighty degrees, pointed directly at the engine.
Edison repeated his demand, shouting, “Back to Kansas City!”
Interlude 60
Saturday, March 18, 1893, 10:30 a.m.
Lexington, Missouri
Milo held up the oil lantern as he bent low and made his way through the tunnel. He stopped at a T-intersection, looked to the left and right for a moment, then veered left. He hummed softly to himself. Debris broke loose from the tunnel wall as he moved past. He paused and brushed rubble from his shoulder.
A pale face broke out of the darkness and hissed. It opened its mouth and bared its fangs, looking at Milo with hungry, mucous-filled eyes. Milo slapped the evil visage and the creature blinked, clamped its mouth shut, and whimpered.
“No,” Milo said evenly.
The creature groaned again, disappearing into the darkness.
Milo continued onward, whistling Mozart’s Funeral March. He came to a huddled form lying in the next chamber and kicked it hard.
John Randolph sat up and screamed…and screamed…and screamed.
Milo pushed the bookkeeper forward. The whimpering man walked almost hugging the tunnel wall, looking backward, upward and down at the ground, as if not believing his situation.
“These are old Civil War coal mines,” Milo said.
“Where are we?” Randolph moaned. “Where is the Master?”
“These mines lead to a grand home that stood at the center of the First Battle of Lexington.”
“The Master will be there?”
Milo pushed John Randolph on. “He is nearby.”
Finally, they came to a ladder. Milo took one of Randolph’s hands and placed it on the first rung. “This ladder leads to a basement. Confederate troops used ladders like this one to sneak into homes being used as hospitals. Up you go.”
Randolph climbed.
Milo sat eating an apple in a tattered armchair in the middle of an enormous foyer, with boarded windows and bullet-scarred walls. Wind whistled through a hole from a cannon ball shot through the roof. As he looked out the massive, front entrance without doors, he studied the crumbling portico and contemplated. Then he looked over at the figure huddling on the floor in the corner. He tossed the apple core aside, stood, and delivered another kick to the form.
“Noooooo!” John Randolph shouted, rolling over and huddling closer to the wall, wrapping himself in a filthy blanket.
Milo stretched out a hand softly, laying it on the trembling form. “The Master has a task.”
A terrible soft wailing came from the figure on the floor and Milo stepped back.
“Not the light,” the figure on the floor moaned.
“You will,” Milo said gently.
The body shifted on the floor.
Milo put his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out another apple. “The Master wants you to eat something,” he said, tossing the apple next to John Randolph, “and then the Master needs a favor.”
The bookkeeper wailed again. The pitiful sound trailed off as he looked up and saw a large spider crossing the wall above him. He reached out towards it, but Milo slapped his hand down.
He grabbed the bookkeeper by the scruff of the shirt and dragged the sobbing wretch towards the stairs. At the top of the stairs, Milo pulled John Randolph to his feet and shoved him to the center of the room, ripping the blanket away. The bookkeeper groaned and shivered.
“Heh, heh, heh,” the low, throaty chuckle came from a dark corner of the room.
Randolph jumped.
Milo barely made out the enormous figure in the gray light. Over six feet and at least four hundred pounds, it stood in blue jean overalls and bloodstains. The vampire stepped forward, flashed its fangs, and chuckled again, “Heh, heh, heh.”
“Keep your filthy hands to yourself!” Randolph cried, dropping to his knees.
Milo stepped up, placing a hand on the bookkeeper’s shoulder. “Archie is here to be of assistance. If necessary, he’s also here to…motivate.”
John Randolph threw his arms around Milo’s waist. “What does the Master wish of me?”
Interlude 61
Saturday, March 18, 1893, 11:10 a.m.
Kansas City Union Depot
Tom Horn alternately eyed the cattle rancher and the haberdasher sitting across the table and the pair of kings, ten high, in his hand. He picked up the whiskey bottle on the table in front of him and poured a couple fingers into the glass next to it. He gulped down the pepper whiskey and smacked his lips.
“You
know, I used to like Paul Jones whiskey. My father drank it. Hell, I think my father’s father drank it. But ever since Kentucky changed the laws allowing distillers to bottle their own whiskey, I’ve found that Kessler whiskey has a much better, more consistent taste.” He poured another two fingers and held the glass up. “We may have all been drinking adulterated whiskey all these years.”
Thomas Edison stepped through the door of the Coates Saloon and looked around.
Horn saw him and slapped down his pair face up. “Gentlemen, I have a business appointment.”
Nikola Tesla pulled the sheets off the bed. He held them up and stretched them out. “Silk,” he smiled at Ida. “Perfect. Get more.”
He motioned to the connecting door and Ida went through. Moments later they snuck into the hall and down the stairwell.
Back in the conference hall, Tesla began measuring the silk sheets by arm length and tearing them into strips.
“What are we doing?” Ida asked.
Tesla tossed three strips on the floor and picked up another sheet, measuring. “I am making parachutes.”
“Parachutes? What would we need parachutes for?”
“Napoleon planned to drop French soldiers into England with parachutes.” Tesla countered.
“What does that mean?” Ida shook her head.
“It means we need grommets.”
“Where are we going to get grommets?” Ida asked.
“Flags. Corsets. Find what you can.” Tesla tore another silk sheet apart.
Tom Horn sat across from Thomas Edison and said nothing for several moments. He studied his empty glass. He poured another two fingers of Kessler’s, lifted the glass and drank it down.
“So, you need more men.” Horn pursed his lips. “What did you do with the first four I gave you?”
“We underestimated the complexity of the project.” Edison said flatly.