He stood outside the curtain and listened to Dr. Bronson’s deep, refined voice as he talked to the men inside. “Honestly, Theodore. I’m surprised she’s made it this long. At this point, her vitals are in continuous decline. We’ve tried a medley of antidotes, but without knowing exactly what toxin we are dealing with, it’s unlikely they will make an impact. She’s not going to make it.” Wage heard the flipping of pages. “Given the rate of her deterioration, I’d say she only has a few days left. Less if the nurses can’t find a way to keep her food down.”
Wage heard the sound of something else. Quincey sobbing.
“There’s gotta be something,” Roosevelt barked. “There has to be!”
“I’m sorry, Theodore,” Dr. Bronson replied.
Quincey continued to sob like a dying animal.
Wage’s own eyes welled with tears that stung his bloodshot eyes and finally rolled down his cheek.
He walked over to the brass coat stand, donned his leather jacket and slouch hat. He checked his pocket watch. 9:30 p.m. He could be at Sing Sing by midnight.
The Witchdoctor
February 2, 1915
Sing Sing Prison
Ossining, New York
An actual mattress. A book selected from the private library. And a toilet. Not a pail, or bucket, but an actual, ceramic toilet. This wasn’t a prison. Compared to the brig of the USS Connecticut, this was a country club. A very secluded one, granted, but a country club comparatively. Sure, the meals were terrible, but there were three of them. Aboard the ship, he was only rationed two pints of water and a half loaf of bread a day.
Victor Mamba, also known as the Witchdoctor, sat on his feathered mattress with his head against the cool limestone wall of his cell. A solidarity cell that gave him almost 20 square feet and echoed the Chopin Nocturne he hummed. He turned the page of his borrowed book. Act IV, Scene I of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. The witch’s brew.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” a man said with a Louisiana drawl. He stood in the shadows on the other side of the bars with his slouch hat pulled down low.
The prisoner closed his book with a loud thwap. “Only a masterpiece,” he replied. “And you are?”
“Major Wage Pascal,” Wage answered, pulling his jacket to the side to reveal the Peacemaker badge.
Dr. Mamba clapped his hands. “Ah, yes. How long has it been? The last time I saw you, you were … let’s see.” He furrowed his brow in thought. “At Cynthia Hamilton’s engagement party. Or rather, the morning after. You were climbing down from her window.” He laughed. “Her father Jonathan was a hot-head, I tell you, but I’ve never seen him angrier than the morning you defiled his daughter.”
“Defiled is rather a harsh term, don’t you think?”
“Harsh, but probably accurate.”
“If it’s accuracy you’re after, then, I did defile her that morning. And twice the night before.”
Dr. Mamba laughed again. “Well, I’ve got news for you—”
“Spare me your bullshit, Doctor,” Wage interrupted. “I ain’t here to chat about old times.”
“Ah, very well. Tell me, Major, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“Colonel Roosevelt said you were uncooperative.”
“As it pertains to ….?”
“The poisoning of one of my agents.”
“And you want me to …”
Wage pulled the other side of his jacket open, revealing his Peacemaker revolver. “Cooperate. Fully.”
“It would be my pleasure, but I’m afraid I’ve already expressed my terms. And they were expressly rejected.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” Wage asked.
“Quite simple, really. I offered my help in saving the life of your agent in exchange for my freedom.”
“What?” Wage muttered.
“Yes, well, your illustrious Colonel Roosevelt rejected the proposal. I believe his exact words were ‘America does not negotiate with men who incite terror.’”
“What?” Wage said again.
The prisoner pointed a finger at Wage. “He didn’t tell you that, did he? Didn’t tell you that he would rather sacrifice the lives of one of his agents than let a humble doctor like myself back out into the world.” Dr. Mamba laughed. “Unbelievably utilitarian, wouldn’t you say? Imprison one. Save hundreds. Perhaps thousands. You’ve got to hand it to him. He is a man of unwavering principle and impeccable caliber.”
Wage drew his revolver. Ol’ Snapper jutted in between the bars. “I only know one caliber. And it’s .45. Now tell me. Can you save her?” Tears sprang from both his eyes.
“Save … her?” The prisoner said with a smile.
Wage gripped his revolver so tight that his hands became the same color as the ivory handle.
“It appears you are also a man of principle, then,” Dr. Mamba added. “Every poison has an antidote, Major Pascal, but I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that damage to her internal organs isn’t already beyond repair. I will try to save your agent. In exchange for my release, of course.”
“What guarantee do I have that you won’t deal me some snake oil?” Wage asked.
The prisoner tossed his book across the cell. It skidded across the concrete floor and came to rest against the dividing bars. Wage noticed the title.
“The witches three in Macbeth. Always toiling about their cauldron. Ever wonder about their ingredients?” He pointed to the book. “Toe of frog. Ranunculus aconitifolius. Also known as common buttercup. Causes gastrointestinal distress and blistering of the mouth. The remedy is simple. Salt. Wool of bat. Ilex aquifolium. You know it as Christmas holly. Can cause seizure and cardiac arrest. Its antidote is found in the vines of a Bougainvillea. Tongue of Hound. Cynoglossum officinale. Gypsy flower. Very nasty. Internal bleeding. Requires an immediate treatment of distilled juniper and rosemary.” Dr. Mamba finally rose from his bed and straightened his striped cotton jumpsuit. “Now, what guarantee do I have you won’t shoot me after a providing you the antidote?”
“You have my word,” Wage said firmly. “And I’m a man of it.”
“And I of mine. Shall we?”
“Guard!” Wage shouted as he holstered Ol’ Snapper. He withdrew a paper from his coat pocket and handed it to the guard, who appeared and snapped to attention. “This prisoner is to be transferred immediately.”
Amber Rose
February 2, 1915
Babbage Family Home
London, England
Amber Rose pulled the small knob to the right of the modest door. It quickly retracted by a taught wire, and she could hear the distant sound of a bell deep within the home. She followed up with three forceful knocks that hurt her swollen fingers. Before disembarking from the Harlequin, she had the petty officer charged with watching her tattoo letters on the flesh below each knuckle. Currently, her hands were covered in sleek, blue satin gloves that matched her dress befitting a proper English lady.
She could hear footsteps echoing inside, followed by a hesitant turn of the doorknob.
The door opened to reveal a clean-shaven gentleman of average height with slicked hair the color of creamed coffee. He couldn’t have been much older than Amber Rose and greeted her with an accent that suggested the purposeful refinement of a steward serving a well-known family. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said with a nod.
Amber Rose flashed him her trademark smile that was equal parts sincere and seductive, which triggered an immediate blushing. “Hi there, darlin’,” she said with a practiced but unmistakably refined southern accent. “I was wondering if you might help me out for a tick?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. What seems to be the problem?” the man replied, pulling his collar against the passing cold breeze.
“It’s my carriage, I’m afraid. It’s split an axel. I’ve dispatched the driver to flag down another, but he hasn’t returned in quite some time, and I am worried I might catch my death out here in the freezing cold. Might I warm myself by your fire?” s
he asked sweetly.
The servant leaned outside, looking toward the residential street. He saw no lopsided carriage, only a few passersby, one of them extraordinarily tall. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Where did you say your carriage was?”
Amber Rose showed no sign of frustration. “Why, it’s down the street, sir. You happen to be the first person on the block to answer to me, and might I say, I’m sure happy you did.”
The servant drew back inside the house. “I beg your pardon, but I am afraid the residents have left on holiday, and I cannot let you in at the moment. I’d be happy to phone someone for you, if you like. The morning operators are generally quite helpful.”
Tesla and Amber Rose had scouted the house for nearly a week. They had picked this exact time after learning the entire Babbage family had already left the lingering cold of London for the comfortable warmth of southern Spain. Amber Rose held herself tightly and forced a shiver. “But, sir. I’m so very cold. Could I not warm myself for only a few minutes?”
The servant looked away in momentary shyness. “It’s the residents, I am afraid. They told me no one is allowed in. I am under strict orders, you see.”
Amber Rose reached out and stroked the man’s chest lightly. “Just for a moment, sir. I beg you.”
For a moment it looked like the man might concede, but his duty finally snapped him back to heartlessness. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Amber Rose’s hand left his chest to straighten his collar. “It’s OK, darlin’. I understand.” She cocked back her other hand and threw a straight punch to the man’s nose as hard as she could. The servant took the blow unsuspectedly and recoiled. He lifted his hands to his face. Amber Rose took two quick steps into the house.
“Jesus bloody hell! What was that?” the man yelled, holding his bleeding nose. He was clearly more upset than hurt. Amber Rose struck again at his bobbing head, the blow grazing his ear. “Honestly! Stop!” She took up a boxer’s stance and looked at the man, pretending he was the makeshift punching bag on the Harlequin. She threw another punch, but the man deflected it easily. “You tart! What’s your problem? Stop it, this instant!” She unleashed a medley of blows, again to no effect. “Stop!” the man repeated. Finally she kicked him hard, her boot landing squarely in his crotch. The man dropped holding himself. “I’m phoning the constable!” he squealed.
And that’s when he saw the extraordinarily tall man duck to enter the house. He loomed nearly two feet above Amber Rose.
“Who?” the servant pointed at the man. “What? What’s going on here?”
The tall man set down a valise and reached inside his overcoat and pulled out something like a pistol, but with an odd-shaped barrel. He tapped Amber Rose delicately on the shoulder before handing it to her. “This may help,” he said.
Amber Rose rolled her eyes. “Dammit,” she said, grabbing the device over her shoulder. She aimed the strange pistol at the servant and depressed the trigger ever so slightly so that the instrument began to hum while the ringed barrel turned a supernatural blue. “Now, I suggest you find a seat,” Amber Rose said firmly.
And the young servant hastily agreed.
Nikola Tesla
February 2, 1915
Babbage Family Home
London, England
The young servant, whose name turned out to be Christopher, was secured to a chair in the living room by a great length of rope. Dry blood caked his face beneath his nose as he pleaded with his new captors to untie him. All the while, Nikola Tesla and Amber Rose scoured the modest, and rather narrow, three-story home for the secret laboratory of one Charles Babbage—the grandfather of the current resident, Henry Herschel Babbage and his family.
“Listen, darlin’, this whole ordeal would go a great deal faster if you just told us where the laboratory is,” Amber Rose announced when she re-entered the room.
“Up … upstairs. I already told you!”
“No. Not that one. The one he is hiding. The secret one,” Amber Rose demanded.
“Meaning no offense, ma’am. But if it is indeed a secret laboratory, then how would I know where it was?”
Amber Rose rolled her eyes. “Oh, forget it.”
Down the hall from the first-floor living room a deep voice called out, “I believe I’ve found it.” Amber Rose scurried down the hall as fast as she could in her restrictive dress. She saw Tesla leaning over, staring at an unlit electric torch mounted to the wood paneling. The small brass light was one of a whole string along that same wall, but it was the only one not powered after having flipped the nearby switch.
“What is it?” asked Amber Rose.
Tesla inspected the fixture before giving it a slight jiggle with his long fingers. There was something of a faint click behind the wall. He shot a quick glance toward his companion before tugging down the lamp 180 degrees. The faint click whirled into a symphony of grinding, unoiled gears and, slowly, a small portion of the wall gave way to reveal a dark descending stairwell. They both peered into the darkness before Tesla gestured with an arm.
“Ladies first,” he said with a measure of sincerity.
“Really?” Amber Rose said, rolling her eyes again and pushing her tall companion out of the way. She used the ambient light from the hallway to navigate the stairwell, but the light did little to help her avoid wave after wave of cascading spider webs.
At the bottom of the stairs was a concrete landing in near-total darkness until Tesla, whose head nearly touched the ceiling, lit a match he had produced from his pocket. With the small halo of light, he was able to find a lever as large as his own hand. He pulled it and, all at once, electricity hummed throughout the space as a medley of lightbulbs lit up the long-forsaken laboratory.
Babbage’s secret laboratory, while entirely ominous, was also a machinist’s heaven.
Shelves lined with heavy iron tools, detailed diagrams, and the most precise measuring equipment that could have been found 60 years ago. On opposite sides of the great room sat two large, complex-looking machines. The one closest to them was bigger than its counterpart—it was easily 6 feet tall and more than 9 feet wide. Its visible insides consisted of a variety of thick rods, each one lined vertically with 15 horizontal and identical gears. Each gear was surrounded in painted numbers 0 through 9. To one side of the machine was a very large hand crank, while at the other end lay a roll of paper beneath what looked like a massive printing press. Metal cables, running both vertically and horizontally across the machine, seemed to string the whole thing together like ligaments surrounding bone.
“Is this the … the …” Amber Rose snapped her fingers repeatedly as she trailed off.
“Babbage’s Difference Engine,” Tesla finished.
“Right. Tell me again what it does?”
“Years ago, scientists and mathematicians relied on human-produced calculation tables for answers to complex formulae.”
“Like a multiplication table?”
“Yes, but more complicated. Polynomial in nature. Using the method of divided differences, tables are generated that could help ship navigators recalculate their course given multiple variables such as wind, current, and power.”
“So what was the problem?”
“The tables were wrong,” Tesla said flatly.
“And this machine was meant to correct those errors, right?”
“Yes.”
Tesla positioned himself at the far end of Babbage’s machine and turned the crank. It squealed with every revolution as the numbered clockwork gears turned with the help of smaller levers that clicked in between the gears’ teeth. Patterns of numbers formed along and across the machine before the large printing press at the other end eventually stamped a series of numbers on dusty, blank paper. Amber Rose tore off the paper and squinted to see columns of numbers, each a separate matrix assigning values for an equation.
“I don’t get it,” Amber Rose said. “How does all this hardware know what equation to solve? How does it know what gears to turn and how far?”
Tesla stretched out his long arm and pointed to the back of the machine. “The algorithm is loaded into the machine here, expressed through a series of punch cards.” He pulled out a series of connected punch cards to show her. The cards looked to be flimsy—paper, perhaps—and splayed out like an outstretched accordion. “The position of the holes becomes a coded language that commands the hardware to executes specific calculations.”
“So it’s kinda like that …that … software tells the hardware what to do? What to calculate?”
Tesla considered her comment with one raised eyebrow. “Yes. That is correct,” he finally said.
“OK, but I’m still confused,” Amber Rose said. “We were sent here to find a machine that thinks and acts like a human. But this machine just does the calculations it is told to do.”
“Programmed to do. Yes,” Tesla responded.
“Soooooo?”
Tesla held up a finger. “Babbage stopped his work on the Difference Engine because he came up with the idea for an Analytical Engine.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning a device that could not just strictly calculate, but process, analyze, and predict. One that could store memory and decipher the most complex of equations with astonishing accuracy and speed.”
Tesla walked toward the far end of the laboratory. Amber Rose hurried to keep pace. Tesla continued, “Babbage built a partially functioning model of the Analytical Machine for the British government, but ultimately the funding ran out as disputes between him and his chief engineer continually delayed the project. Babbage was a … difficult man to get along with.”
“Was he Illuminati?” Amber Rose asked.
“No. He was never recruited. There were many who thought that he did not have the temperament.”
“What do you think?”
Tesla stopped and looked down at his companion. “I never knew him,” he said simply. “I only heard stories.” He continued toward the new machine. “Ultimately, Babbage imagined a device that ran on steam that could perform the same analytical functions as a human being and express them in certain terms. However, the software, as you say, was nearly impossible to code. So Babbage recruited a young woman to create it for him.”
Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2) Page 16