“The very same. Archimedes thought it an apt title. A massive light that guides people, showing the path through ignorant darkness. And it seems as though the forces that impose such a darkness may have been quelled. Permanently.”
“What do you mean, ‘permanently?’’”
“I trust you have heard of the recent Hand activities as of late. And you want an explanation. I suppose you think I know something.”
“Don’t you?”
“You are familiar with The Council? The ones who have directed The Hand for millennia? Founded by the once great Sumerian kings?
"Of course I am."
"They are all dead,” Edison announced as he finally turned to face Roosevelt.
Roosevelt sat up in his chair. “What? How?”
“Evidence suggests they were burned alive. All 12 of them in one of the towers at Bannerman’s Castle.”
“How have you come by this information?” Roosevelt demanded.
“Really, Theodore? Do you think I am going to lay out my intelligence networks just for you? Reveal our ways? Ways that date back more than a thousand years?”
“Well, if you scientists are so keen on empirical evidence, then show me proof.”
Edison walked back to his desk and sat down on the plush wooden chair, whose towering backboard made it look more like a throne. He reached deep into his inner coat pocket and withdrew a thick gold ring. Roosevelt adjusted his spectacles to see it better with his one good eye (jungle fever had taken the sight from his other). A gleaming orange sapphire was the fiery pupil of the eye etched on the top of the ring. To one side was the Greek letter omega, and to the other a series of connected circles.
Although Roosevelt couldn’t see it, he heard Edison inserting the ring into the face of the drawer in front of him. Edison seemed to twist the ring one way, and then the other, at which point Roosevelt could hear a something unlatch deep within the desk. The drawer popped open. Edison reached in and pulled from it a large gold medallion affixed to a thick gold chain. The medallion had a hole in the center that was surrounded by alien inscriptions.
“This was once worn by a member of the Council,” Edison said, holding the soot-stained medallion so that it dangled above his desk.
Roosevelt pointed again. “Thomas, I demand you tell me how you retrieved that!”
“You came here to make a deal,” Edison replied coolly. “What are you offering?”
“What do you want?”
“You have created a new agency. What is it?” Edison asked.
“An agency to keep tabs on fellas like you,” Roosevelt replied.
“Covert, then?”
“The American public doesn’t know of our existence. Just the president, a select few of his executive aids, and now, you. My turn. How did you come by that medallion?”
Edison dropped the medallion and grabbed the suspended fountain pen on his desk. He wrote something quickly and then let go. A few seconds later, the same pen moved fluidly, on its own, across the paper as if held by a ghost. Edison watch as his repligrapher scribbled a message from the transmitting party. Roosevelt leaned in to see the note better. Edison said, “I recently convinced an Idimmu from The Hand to defect. The assassin now works for us. He’s a crafty bastard, I’ll give him that. One hell of an operative. My turn. Captain Pascal. Is he yours now?”
“To borrow the phrase, Thomas, he’s one hell of an operative. My turn. What the hell is goin’ on with The Hand?”
“Like I said, The Council is done. The Hand is no more. The multitude of factions they controlled, however, are not. They are popping up all over the map. My turn. What’s the actual deal you want?”
“I’m going to stay out of your way, if you stay out of mine. My team's primary objective is to keep America and the world safe from organizations like The Hand. The last thing we want is a bunch of scientists getting in our way,” Roosevelt said. “As far as I am concerned, we should both have the same mission. And for the time being, I don’t want to worry about you."
“In order for your little outfit to be successful you are going to need my scientists,” Edison said.
“I have my own scientist.”
“Ha,” Edison laughed. A rare sight. “Who?”
“Tesla.”
Edison’s face went pale at the mention of this name. “He was working for The Hand.”
“I convinced him to defect. My turn again. The three men at Carnegie. They wore shrouds over their faces. Who are they?”
“An unknown variable,” Edison replied. “We’re looking into it.”
“Why the boy, Jules? Why’d you take him?” Roosevelt asked out of turn.
Edison slicked back his thin, ghost-white hair. “Why don’t you come see for yourself?” he said.
Edison got up from his throne and walked toward the stairs at the far end of the laboratory. Roosevelt hastily followed, this time letting his limp get the best of him. As he caught up, Edison opened the wooden door to the staircase.
A shirtless Asian man stood in the now-open doorway. His chiseled body was covered in tattoos. A menagerie of colorful animals swarmed his sides, chest, and arms. A circular tattoo interwoven with a circular brand surrounded by pinhole scars on the left side of his chest told Roosevelt that this was the defected Hand assassin. Disciples sow a stone into their chest, which gives them the pinhole scars. The brand meant he was once a Medjai, a bodyguard and enforcer for the Hand. The interwoven tattoo, however, meant he was one of the most dangerous men alive. One of six Idimmu. Deadly assassins who take—or rather, took—their orders directly from The Council.
“This is Monomi,” Edison said. “Now please, follow me.”
Amber Rose
January 4, 1915
Laboratory of Thomas Edison
West Orange, New Jersey
Amber Rose chose the closest structure to investigate first. With her hands tucked in the pockets of her winter coat, she crept up to the first window on the side of the building and peered through. A shirtless man, with closely cropped black hair and many tattoos, was sweating as he attacked a canvas bag that leaked trace amounts of sand with every strike. Amber Rose recognized him immediately. She recognized the same speed and fluidity of his strikes, strikes that only a few months earlier had saved her life. She had been backstage at Carnegie Hall when a sleazy, cold-blooded killer named Khalid Francois cornered her at gunpoint. That was when the man she was currently staring at, this assassin, slithered into the room, disarmed Khalid, and crushed his windpipe. The man’s name was Monomi Mono.
The assassin’s fists, elbows, feet, and knees slammed into the canvas bag with precision, creating a focused, martial poetry. Amber Rose noticed a particular combination he repeated. A combination that intrigued her. It involved an open palm strike to the top of the bag, followed by a straight jab, and then a knee shooting up to the bag’s midsection. In between combination strikes, Monomi would slide around the bag, his body constantly in motion, causing the tattooed animals all over his body to undulate. Then, without warning, the viper would strike.
After another flurry of blows, Monomi stood upright and snapped his head toward the fogged window. Amber Rose ducked and grabbed her chest, holding back the heart that threatened to jump out of it. She kept low and moved to the next window along the same wall. She peeked into the same room and saw the assassin staring at a stack of papers with a pen hovering above it. He then grabbed the pen and scribbled something on the paper, and promptly made his way to the door.
Shirtless and barefoot, the Asian man made his way across the courtyard to the main laboratory complex. Amber Rose continued to spy on him. She waited for her breathing to slow before she stood up. “You are a Peacemaker, Amber Rose Macgillicuddy,” she told herself. “You’ve been through worse. Compose yourself.” She straightened her jacket and the bottom of her dress, and made her way to the next building.
Amber Rose peeked into a side window. Soot-stained men toiled around a large, fire-breathing forge,
while other men poured molten metal from chain-suspended cauldrons into a variety of molds. Because of the immense heat generated from the forge, Amber Rose constantly shifted her head to see through the fogged glass.
“Who the hell are you?” a child’s voice asked behind her.
Amber Rose jumped and turned quickly to see a child of about 10 wearing a heavy jacket with the collar turned up. A checkered flat cap protected his thick black hair from the heavy snowflakes that had started to fall. “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” Amber Rose said. “You startled me, child.”
The boy opened his coat and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his inner pocket. He also pulled out a brass contraption about the size of a lipstick applicator. With a flick of his thumb, an intense flame erupted from the contraption. Despite the winter winds, he lit the cigarette easily. The boy took a deep inhale. “Lady, do I look like a child to you?”
“Um,” Amber Rose said hesitantly.
“Oh, my apologies,” the boy said, withdrawing another cigarette, putting it in his mouth, lighting it, and handing it to Amber Rose.
She took the cigarette and inhaled, looking at him warily. “Thanks.”
“So what brings a pretty little dame like you around these parts?”
“I’m sorry. Who are you?” Amber Rose asked.
“Name’s Jules Oppenheimer. How’s about you, doll?” He tapped the ash from his cigarette.
“How old are you?”
“The square root of 196 minus 4,” the boy said with a smile.
“So you’re only 10?” Amber Rose replied quickly.
The boy looked stunned.
“I’ve always been good at math,” she said with a small shrug and a smile.
“Why don’t you tell me how old you are?” Jules asked.
“19,” Amber Rose replied. “Almost 20.”
“So how’s about you and me head down the street. Have a drink?”
“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me?”
The boy removed his flat cap and parted his dark hair. He winked with one turquoise eye. The boy clearly read the same charm books as Wage Pascal. “Not kidding. I know a great place to have a drink and shoot some pool.”
Amber Rose flicked her cigarette. Then she remembered why she had been chosen for this mission with Roosevelt—although she hadn’t exactly planned on using her feminine wiles on a 10-year old. But what the hell. She tossed her hair flirtingly and undid a few buttons on her coat, revealing the slightest of cleavage. She winked back. “Hey fella,” she said, “I would love to have a drink with you, but first … You wouldn’t be hidin’ anything I should know about, now? Would ya?”
Jules’ eyes went wide.
She twirled her hair. “Would ya?”
“Not hidin’ nothing. Nope,” he replied.
“Jules?” Amber Rose said seductively. “Tell me whatcha do around here?”
The boy scratched his ear and kicked the ground that was now speckled with snow. “I built an engine.”
“Tell me all about it.”
“It’s nothing, really. I was able to use the repulsive and attractive forces of an electrical charge to produce mechanical energy. It’s small, efficient, and will last hours on a single charge.”
Amber Rose narrowed her eyes. “Jules, what does your engine power?”
Colonel Roosevelt
January 4, 1915
Under the Laboratory of Thomas Edison
West Orange, New Jersey
Roosevelt stared at it. A giant suit of armor, over nine feet tall and painted black. His first thoughts were of the black knight from Arthurian legend, except this one had a riveted hatch about the chest emblazoned with a red omega. Its head was also different; it was half-sunken into a large gorget that sat between two heavily reinforced shoulders. Two slightly bulbous and glowing eyes stared out. Another scientist stood behind the metal hulk. He had only one arm, his other lab coat sleeve pinned up, and he struggled to unplug a thick wire from the back of the massive set of armor.
“Wake up, Syracuse,” Edison commanded.
The entire suit of armor buzzed with electricity as it powered on. It grew another few inches as it stood upright. The machine adjusted its stance and two massive steel feet thrummed as they stomped on the concrete floor. “Directive?” the machine asked in a deep voice.
“What in the hell is that thing?” Roosevelt asked, pointing at it in shock.
Edison replied, “I’d like you to introduce you to Syracuse. Syracuse, this is Theodore.”
Roosevelt tried his best to remain stoic. “Colonel Roosevelt,” he corrected.
The automaton lifted a clawed hand to its brow in salute.
The colonel returned the salute and heard more electrical gears buzz as Syracuse dropped its hand.
"Syracuse here is a fully automated soldier of the future," Edison announced.
"Full automated?" Roosevelt asked.
"It thinks for itself," Edison replied. “Monomi! Please demonstrate the imperviousness of Syracuse here to our guest.”
The tattooed assassin bowed and walked across the room toward the steel behemoth, to a wooden table displaying a variety of weapons: knives ranging from small to large, a few pistols of increasing caliber, and a lever-action rifle. The room itself was rectangular and at least 50 yards long. No windows. Everything was concrete, with two massive, earthen berms at either end. In front of the farthest berm stood ten straw men, all affixed with wooden rifles.
“Dickie,” Edison called, “Bring us our protection.” The one-armed scientist dashed across the room and grabbed the handle on a solid, steel-plated screen with two small slits on it. It was roughly 10 feet high, 15 feet long, and nearly 4 inches thick. And thanks to the greased rollers at the bottom, Dickie was able to drag the contraption in front of Roosevelt and Edison, creating a small protective partition to one side of the room. He then produced two sets of earmuffs. Roosevelt had never seen these types of earmuffs before, but he donned them the same way Edison did, and immediately appreciated their practicality. Dickie took up a position behind the men and plugged one ear with his finger, having no earmuffs for himself.
“Monomi!” Edison yelled through the screen’s viewport in front of him before peering through it. Roosevelt looked through his own viewport.
Monomi, only 10 yards away from Syracuse, picked up the smallest knife and threw it with pinpoint precision at the automaton’s head. Thanks to the ear protection, the clang of the knife could hardly be heard as it bounced harmlessly off Syracuse. Monomi repeated the action with a larger knife and a more pronounced throwing motion. A larger, but still muffled, clang rang out. Monomi then grabbed two pistols, aimed, and fired them simultaneously. The automaton looked down as bullets deflected off its chest plate with a high-pitched zing. A few of the ricochets hit the steel screen in front of them with an additional clank.
Monomi dropped the pistols to the ground and grabbed the lever-action rifle. With a slow and methodical motion, he fired at the unflinching machine. Bullets made contact with its head and all four limbs, but they left only scratches and barely noticeable dents. Monomi dropped the rifle and sprinted toward the automaton.
Monomi’s kicks and open-palm strikes fruitlessly landed on the various joints of the metal giant. With animal-like agility, Monomi hopped atop the giant. He wrapped his legs around one armored shoulder to constrict its movement. He then tried his best to place a chokehold on it with snaking arms. This clearly upset Syracuse, whose glowing eyes had just turned red. The metal man took a wider, more balanced stance. It reached back with its unencumbered arm, an arm that ended in a large, two-pronged grappling claw. With the claw, Syracuse was able to snag Monomi by his chest and hurl him across the room. The assassin rolled as he landed, minimizing injury. He then sprung to his feet and jogged back to the spectators. Once behind the screen, Roosevelt noticed all Monomi’s cuts and scratches that were starting to bleed. Monomi did not seem to care.
Edison yelled through the slit in the steel scre
en again. “Syracuse! Annihilate!”
Syracuse’s focus turned to the 10 straw men at the far end. With great, lumbering strides the giant approached the straw platoon. It moved with a surprising fluidity. When it was about 20 yards away, it lifted the left arm that ended in a revolving Gatling gun. An ammunition belt that ran from the small of its back to the machine gun created something of a wing. The six barrels of the machine gun started to spin. A moment later, a wall of lead flew toward the straw men and the berm behind them. Even with ear protection, the sound of the gun was deafening as it shredded eight of the 10 targets. As if understanding ammunition conservation, it stopped firing. A port on the topside of the gun arm opened. Something large and round sprung out and detonated toward the downed straw men. Roosevelt could feel the heat from the artillery blast as those shredded men flew in smaller pieces about the room and erupted in flames.
Edison turned to Roosevelt and yelled. Roosevelt had to focus on his lips to understand. “This is only our prototype. Its primary weapon system is a revolving machine gun capable of firing 2,000 rounds per minute. It’s interchangeable, too. It’s supported by explosive artillery rounds that are concealed in its forearm. Also interchangeable depending on the mission task. But should anyone of those systems fail …” Edison trailed off, nodding his head once in Syracuse’s direction.
Roosevelt turned to see Syracuse lift and rotate his clawed arm in the air. Two small nozzles were visible on the top and bottom of its wrist. The top nozzle, wider than its counterpart, sparked a pilot flame. Syracuse lowered his arm and a much larger, much more concentrated flame spewed out, dousing the remaining straw men. Syracuse walked up within a few feet of a flaming soldier and with one quick swipe, uprooted it. It went flying across the room. Syracuse grabbed another flaming man, picked him up, and threw him so that he slid directly in front of the steel-plated screen.
With its eyes still glowing red, the metal giant made its way to the spectators, where it stood at attention. Edison took off his ear protection. “Dickie!” he called. The poor scientist unplugged his one ear, scrambled across the room, and returned lugging a soda-acid fire extinguisher. He set it on the ground, grabbed the nozzle, and put out the burning man closest to them. He then carried the extinguisher to the far end and began putting out the remaining flames.
Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2) Page 7