Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “A woman?”

  “Yes.” Tesla said, stopping before the machine. “A mathematical prodigy named Ada King, the Countess of Lovelace. When she heard of Babbage’s work she sent him a great deal of correspondences. Initially, she was convinced she could discover the calculus of the human nervous system.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The mathematics behind how our brain gives rise to thoughts, and how those thoughts get transferred to nerves and expressed as feelings. Babbage found this intriguing and brought her to London, most likely to this very laboratory, to begin coding for the Analytical Engine.”

  “Did it work?”

  “I do not know. Ada Lovelace died before anything could be completed, and much of their work remained a secret.” Tesla waved his hand in front of the other machine. “I believe this is their machine.”

  Babbage’s Analytical Machine was nearly half the size of its counterpart but contained a great deal more hardware—nearly twice the amount of rods and clockwork gears. A similar printing press sat at one end, but instead of a hand crank on the other end, there sat a typewriter with small depressible keys. Amber Rose circled and inspected the machine but found no slots to feed the software. There was only an attached ornate box, intricately gilded and darkly stained despite its dusty coating. A bundle of wires led from the small chest into the innards of the machine. A smaller set of wires led out of the box across the floor to a large shelf of interconnected earthen jars in the near corner of the laboratory.

  “So how does this one work? How do you tell this machine what to do?”

  “I do not know. In my final days with the Illuminati there were those who insisted that Babbage had actually completed it before he died, but the notion was widely disregarded.”

  “So you believe that this is the machine that thinks?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believe Ada Lovelace did create the software.”

  “I believe so,” Tesla replied, inspecting the machine closely. He followed the wires leading from the ornate box to the shelf of earthen jars. He tapped one of the jars and heard the liquid inside slosh about. “These are batteries. The machine appears to be powered.”

  “Well, it’s not doing nothing, is it?”

  Tesla scanned and counted the earthen jars. There were 64 in total, each about the size of a wine decanter, and only a few seemed to be corroded. “These could power something small for a very long time, or …” he trailed off, looking back to the seemingly dormant machine.

  Amber Rose stared at the roll of paper underneath the printing press. She gripped the paper and ripped it off before blowing decades of dust off it. She expected to see columns of numbers—answers to some complex formulae. What she found instead perplexed her. She read the line out loud: “What a strange thing man is; and what a stranger thing ... am I.” She looked to Tesla and then back to the printing press. The large type bar looked crooked and misaligned. Instinctively, Amber Rose pushed the arm-length bar back into place. It crashed into position with a loud clang.

  That’s when the machine hummed ever so slightly, and letter blocks at the end of long metal shafts crashed onto the fresh paper below it. After a few strokes, faded ink spelled out, “Who is there?”

  Amber Rose pointed in shock. “I didn’t do that!”

  Tesla bounded over to the machine. He bent over and observed the words, then scanned the machine once more. He stepped over to the typewriter and pondered, what was for him, an eternity. Finally he typed on the keys.

  My name is Nikola Tesla.

  Wage W. Pascal

  February 2, 1915

  Knickerbocker Hospital

  Harlem, New York

  Back inside the portioned-off wing of the Knickerbocker, Wage nodded in Mink’s direction. “Get to it,” he commanded, placing a hand on the butt of his revolver tucked rather conspicuously into his trousers.

  Dr. Mamba sighed. “Very well. Let’s see what we have, shall we?” Wearing a brown topcoat over his striped prison garb, Dr. Victor Mamba circled the sleeping Mink.

  “Chart’s right there, hangin’ from the edge of the bed,” Wage added.

  “Thank you, but I’d much prefer to diagnose her myself,” Dr. Mamba replied, grabbing Mink’s wrist. With two fingers on her pulse, he closed his eyes and waited. “Hmm,” he said, opening his eyes. His hand moved to her face, which was cool to the touch. He then pried open one of her eyelids, noticing the pupil dilation. Mink groaned, and as she did, Doctor Mamba quickly put his nose to her mouth, breathing in deeply. “Hmm,” he muttered again. Finally, he put his ear to Mink’s chest and listened to the shallowness of her breath and infrequent heartbeat. Dr. Mamba finally stood up straight and turned back to Wage. “Nightshade,” he announced.

  “What?” Wage asked.

  “Deadly Nightshade. Atropa Belladonna,” he said. “Highly toxic. Where I come from, savages tip their arrows with it. Nasty stuff, really.”

  Wage knew of the plant, but had never seen a live specimen, only its dried leaves, berries, and roots that Madame Sweetooth used to mix up some of her voodoo recipes back home. “So, is there an antidote?” he asked.

  “My boy, there is always an antidote. But I’m afraid you haven’t much time.”

  “How much time?” Wage asked, now gripping the handle of his revolver.

  Dr. Mamba gazed once more upon Mink, lying there like a pale angel whose wings and body were disintegrating. “A day. Two at the most. Honestly, I’m surprised she made it this long.” Dr. Mamba finally grabbed the chart hanging from the edge of the bed. He sifted through the sloppily written pages. His eyes caught something. He tried to hide a snicker with a closed fist.

  Wage’s tired eyes glared at Dr. Mamba. It was now almost 4 a.m. “What the hell is so funny?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “It appears some of her secondary symptoms were treated with atropine.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “A drug derived from mandrake that increases the heart rate. However, in this case, atropine would exacerbate and prolong the effects of the nightshade already in her system. Given this information and these deteriorating vitals, I’d say it could be only a matter of hours.”

  Wage drew his revolver and aimed it from his hip. “The next thing out of your mouth better be the cure.”

  Dr. Mamba sighed. “Calabar beans.” He held up a finger. “And before you ask, it comes from the same place as nightshade. Poisons and antidotes often grow near each other. Warriors in my tribe used the beans for dueling. They’d split a bean in half, both consume it, and the winner was the one who lived. Although typically both died. Always such a waste of fine warriors.”

  “It’s poison, too?” Wage asked.

  “Think of it as two negatives making a positive. Crush a full bean, or steep the roots, and deliver it orally. It will counteract the nightshade, and with any luck, her internal organs may regain their previous functions. I’m afraid, however, that I can’t really give you a timeframe for her recovery should she, in fact, be able to recover.”

  “Where do I find it?”

  “You mean besides sub-Saharan Africa?”

  Wage pulled the hammer back on Ol’ Snapper.

  Dr. Mamba quickly replied, “The Brooklyn Institute of Arts and Sciences. Its greenhouse contains more than a thousand different species of plants. You should find it there, I’d imagine.”

  Wage holstered his revolver, and his gaze slowly moved between Dr. Mamba and Mink. “I believe I’ve held up my end of the bargain,” the doctor continued, adjusting his top coat before putting his hands in his pockets. “I trust I am free to leave now?”

  Wage curtly nodded his head toward the room’s exit. “Go on.”

  Dr. Mamba smiled, his opalescent teeth contrasting against his ebony skin, and strolled, almost merrily, across the room. Before he could walk through the partition door, however, a figure appeared, barring his exit. Pani stuck her growling face disturbingly close to the witch
doctor’s as though she meant to bite it.

  “Christ!” Dr. Mamba yelped, drawing back from Pani. He turned and pointed his finger at Wage. “Get this foul creature away from me. We had a deal.”

  Pani growled disapprovingly.

  Wage continued to stare at the peaceful, fading Mink. “If she dies, Doctor, you die. Rest assured, I’ll find you.” Wage waved his hand, motioning Pani to move.

  Reluctantly, Pani obliged.

  Dr. Mamba composed himself and made for the door. “I highly doubt it, Major Pascal,” he said before disappearing.

  Pani condemningly glared at Wage like he had just deprived her of a deserved kill. Wage kept his eyes on Mink, and silently plotted the fastest path to the Brooklyn Institute. Finally, Wage whistled Grieg’s Hall of the Mountain King.

  Simon Hum

  February 4, 1915

  Gerry’s Dockside

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  “Perhaps I should introduce myself,” Simon said as he pulled out the chair and draped his heavy coat on the back. The lone candle, dripping ivory wax all over the table, cast an eerie flame on the seated man’s gruesome visage. A medley of stitched scars and burns traversed his face and the half of his scalp where black stringy hair no longer grew. “My name is Simon Hum. I’m something of a detective.” Simon sat down and rested both hands on the table, his real, narrow fingers interlaced with his larger, metal ones.

  “You a copper?” the man asked in a scratchy baritone, staring at Simon’s wonderarm.

  “Not exactly. I would, however, like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Kirkpatrick. All I require from you is information. And then, I shall be on my way, leaving you in peace before you rise in the morning to attend to your welding job.” The scarred man wrinkled his flattened nose. “Or perhaps it’s a recent hockey match you would like to dwell on. You are a goalie, I presume. Yes? A welder and hockey goalie. Two professions that really should require a protective mask, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t like masks,” the man said, lifting whiskey to his split lip. “Don’t like you, either.”

  The detective surveyed his surroundings. The shanty, dockside tavern was cobbled together with weathered planks. Near the entrance, a modest bar with an assortment of cheap liquors on tiered shelving was under siege by swarming fruit flies. Rickety tables filled most of the space. Shadowy patrons talked quietly and swigged their spirits, some occasionally lit by the roaring, crackling fire within the stone hearth whose heat struggled against the icy, three-river winds that howled and seeped through every crack in the small establishment.

  “Let me be frank, Mr. Kirkpatrick. I have scoured the depths of this town for weeks. Finally, some associates of yours, after some persuasion, told me that you may just have the information I need, so that I can leave this place and hopefully never return.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “I’m looking for a man named Eric Jerome Delacroix,” Simon said, noting an instantaneous tensing of the scarred man’s hands. “I trust you know him?”

  “Ain’t never heard of him,” Kirkpatrick replied, finishing his whiskey. “Now, why don’t you leave me be.”

  The detective held up a natural finger. “I am quite certain you may have only met his acquaintance once, and he wore a straw boater.”

  The scarred man groaned before yelling across the shanty dockside bar. “Give me another whiskey. And get this copper outta my face!”

  “Wire rim glasses and a Louisiana drawl. Ringing a bell?”

  The scarred man groaned again.

  “Listen to me very carefully, Mr. Kirkpatrick. The man you work for is extremely dangerous—,” Simon started before a rough hand from behind him landed on his shoulder. Simon’s eyes darted right to see the gnarled hand that braced him. He sensed the presence of another man to his left.

  “Think it’s about time you were on your way,” the man holding Simon’s right shoulder said.

  Kirkpatrick’s upper lip bowed in amusement.

  Simon sighed. “Gentlemen, I must confess, I deplore violence. But if pressed, I will not hesitate to use my martial ability in defense of my person.”

  Kirkpatrick cocked an eyebrow.

  Simon smiled this time and shot his wonderarm across to his right shoulder, snatching up the hand that braced it. Simon’s vice-like grip tightened, and the mechanisms inside his arm gave off a purring sound. The man fell to his knees as all the little bones in his hand began to pop and snap. Instinctively, Simon leaned his head toward the table, nearly scratching his face against the splintery surface. A fist came careening over him as the man to his left now attacked. Simon released his grip on the kneeling man and whirled out of his chair, and with impeccable footwork, danced around both men so that he stood in front of the roaring hearth with both his attackers in front of him.

  Both men were significantly bigger than him and looked as though they had participated in their fair share of barroom brawls. The one with the broken hand stood, his chest heaving like an angry bull as he cradled his hand. He had closely cropped hair and a crooked nose. His wide eyes shot to the fire poker that hung to the side of the stone fireplace. The other man had not a hair on him and seemed to shine in the ambient lighting. He took up a fighter’s pose and gritted his jagged teeth.

  Broken Hand lunged for the poker. Simon meant to stop him but had to evade the vicious haymaker punch that Jagged Teeth threw. Simon ducked and countered with a right hook. His natural hand connected with the man’s oily cheek bone. Unfazed, Jagged Teeth countered with a right hook of his own. The punch connected with the side of Simon’s head, knocking off his black bowler hat and forcing his back against the warm stone of the fireplace.

  The fire poker whistled as Broken Hand swung it with his non-dominant arm. Simon raised his wonderarm to parry the blow. A loud clang echoed through the bar as metal met metal. Simon grabbed the shaft of the poker before Broken Hand could pull it away. His wonderarm purred louder, and the metal poker began to bend toward a 90-degree angle. Both assailants stared in brief confusion.

  Simon finally wrenched the poker away from Broken Hand and flung the bent piece of metal at Jagged Teeth, catching him on the neck. Jagged Teeth clutched his neck and retreated toward the bar’s entrance. Simon raced toward Broken Hand, knocking away the man’s awkward punch and grabbing him by the collar. With feet firmly planted, Simon lifted the bigger man into the air and, with the aid of his mechanical arm, flung the man across the room and into an unoccupied table.

  Simon had no time to catch his breath as a wooden chair suddenly struck his back and knocked him to the floor directly in front of the fire. Kirkpatrick landed on Simon's side, using his knee to pin Simon’s shoulder to the ground. Physics and leverage immobilized his outstretched wonderarm, leaving his metal hand resting in the fire. Kirkpatrick unleashed a flurry of devastating blows. Simon did his best to fend off punches with his natural fist, but the veteran hockey player barely noticed the parries.

  Simon could feel his metal hand tingling. If he still had functional nerves anywhere in his left arm, they probably would have registered immense pain within the now faintly glowing wonderarm. Immediately, he became concerned that the heat from the fire might set off the various rounds of ammunition within his augmented appendage. Simon decided to use leverage of his own. He let out a scream and kicked his legs up in a scissor-like motion, placing one leg across Kirkpatrick’s face and the other behind his neck. Simon jerked his legs down and Kirkpatrick, succumbing to physics himself, fell to the ground. Simon removed his hand from the fire and scurried to his feet just as Kirkpatrick did the same.

  Simon lurched forward, and his smoldering metal palm caught Kirkpatrick across one side of his face. Skin sizzled as Simon’s fingers melted into the man’s chin, cheek, and forehead. Kirkpatrick screamed and collapsed to the floor, and Simon followed him, continuing to sear his hand into the man’s face.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time,” Simon yelled over Kirkpatrick’s gasping
and groaning. “Where is E.J. Delacroix?”

  “I … I don’t know! Please. I don’t!”

  Simon stood and lifted his metal hand away from Kirkpatrick’s face, and as he did, some smoking skin came with it. Kirkpatrick screamed again. A massive red imprint of a palm and splayed fingers covered the left side of the hockey player’s face. Simon disregarded the unmistakable smell of charred flesh and finally deployed his revolver and aimed it at the downed man. “I am growing impatient, Mr. Kirkpatrick.”

  Kirkpatrick held his burned face. “He’s building a ship! Ahhh, dammit, he’s building a goddamn ship!”

  “What kind of ship?”

  “Reinforced paddle steamer. Ahhhhhhh.”

  “Reinforced? With what?”

  “Ahhh. God dammit, god dammit. Steel! The paddle and the boiler deck. Ahhhhhh.”

  “Why would he do that?” Simon asked.

  “I dunno! Ahhhhhhh. He doesn’t’ tell us nothing. We show up, do the work, and he pays us in cash. That’s it. Ahhhhhhhh.”

  “Where is this ship, Mr. Kirkpatrick?”

  “It’s … it’s at an unmarked dock. Covered pier, four miles up the Allegheny,” Kirkpatrick said quickly. “Can’t miss it.”

  Simon’s revolver ducked back into the top of his wonderarm. “Thank you, Mr. Kirkpatrick. You’ve been most helpful.” Simon walked across the room and retrieved his bowler hat, placing it back on his head with a calm precision. Then, he donned his heavy wool coat and walked toward the bar, fingering the few dollars in his coat pocket. He placed the bills on the counter. “For the damages,” Simon said as he nodded to the distraught bartender.