Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “Not bounty hunters. Peacemakers,” Wage answered with a smile that Dom didn’t need any magnification to see.

  “That’s great, but where’s Delacroix?” Quincey asked.

  “Simon,” Wage said. “Why don’t you inform them of your findings?”

  Simon set the papers down on the black bear table and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I discovered that Delacroix is having a ship, a paddle-steamer, specifically, outfitted with reinforced decks. I am not entirely sure which deck or decks are being outfitted, but it suggests that he will be hauling something heavy.”

  “Any ideas about what that something heavy is?” Quincey asked.

  “It could be an excess of arms, ammunitions, vehicles perhaps. There isn’t enough evidence to give us a definitive conclusion. However, it is likely that Delacroix will be traveling on that ship when it leaves its berth, as he has personally been overseeing all the work on it.”

  “How do we know it hasn’t left already?” Mink asked.

  “Before being summoned back to headquarters from my mission in Pittsburgh,” Simon continued, “I recruited a young man to keep an eye on the pier for me. He has funding and explicit instructions to contact me via telegraph here at the shop in the event the ship gets underway.”

  “So we’re just gonna rely on this kid and wait here until that telegraph arrives?” Mink asked impatiently.

  “We’ll all be headed to Pittsburgh first thing in the morning,” Wage answered. “While in transit, we’ll come up with a plan to infiltrate that ship. Nikki will manage the shop in case the telegram arrives in our absence. Any questions?”

  “I have a question,” Mink said. “If you are a CEO now, do we still have to call you Captain?”

  Wage belted his trademark crescendoed laugh. “You never called me that anyway, Mink.”

  “Excuse me,” Tesla yelled from across the workshop. “But you may want to see this …”

  Ada Lovelace

  April 1, 1915

  Gartrell Taxidermy

  Manhattan, New York

  The entire team walked over to Tesla, who stood by the large printing press-like machine. Extensive type arms set to one side flung ink-soaked block letters onto a spool of paper. All the while, the medley of rods and gears that occupied the middle of the machine pumped and turned, clicking and clacking to a rhythm only it knew.

  “Holy shit,” Amber Rose exclaimed. “She’s doing it again.”

  “Doing what? What the hell is that thing?” Wage asked.

  Tesla bent over the paper, reading the sentences being constructed. “This is the automaton that Colonel Roosevelt sent me to find."

  Quincey barked, “I thought you said that was a telegraph machine?”

  “I said I interfaced it with the telegraph lines that run along 76th Street.” Tesla pointed up at the wires that hung from the roof, down the wall, and into an ornately gilded and polished wooden box that sat to the other side of the machine. “Those lines are also very near the central hub for this side of the city.” He tore off the intercepted message.

  “What does that mean?” Quincey asked as the type arms continued to slam the paper.

  “It means that Ada should be able to intercept any telegram that travels along the eastern seaboard,” Tesla replied.

  “Wait a minute. Who the hell is Ada?” Wage asked. “Some kind of automaton like the one over there in Edison’s lab?” He pointed back to the chalkboard.

  “She is … something different.” Tesla finished reading the message and tore off the strip of paper with the completed message. He finally turned around. “Ada Lovelace was once a corporeal woman who designed algorithms for an analytical machine, one that can compute vast amounts of data without fault or error.”

  “A corporeal woman?” Wage asked, confused.

  “Her body expired more than 60 years ago, but her mind lived on. In this machine.”

  “And you know for a fact she’s a woman?”

  “Of course,” Tesla replied.

  “How?” Wage asked.

  “Ask her yourself,” Tesla said, pointing the QWERTY typewriter keyboard nestled in the machine near the ornate box. There was no type bar or paper for the letters to fall on, only a discrete bundle of wires that ran from the keyboard into the ornate box.

  Wage stepped forward. “You want me to type her a letter?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is joke?” Wage asked.

  Tesla shook his head. “No.”

  Wage shook his head, too. “All right.” He stared at the keys for a moment before typing: How do Iknow y ou are woman.

  Ada’s typographer quickly and loudly spelled out: Are you a man?

  Wage took a step closer to the spool of paper and read her response. He turned and hurriedly typed with one finger: yes.

  Ada stamped out: Are you primitive, sir?

  Wage huffed and typed: no.

  Ada responded: Although I don’t typically acquiesce to such mundane questions, I will, sir, tell you that I once lived as, and still consider myself to be, a woman.

  Wage marveled at how fast she typed—or not exactly typed, but communicated—he wasn’t sure what to call it. Regardless, he tried to respond with the same expediency: wouldyou sa y a beautiful woman ?

  Ada replied: You must be Captain Wage Pascal. Nikola has already informed me of your less than savory reputation.

  Wage leaned over and read the message. He looked to Tesla and said, “Has he, now?”

  Tesla shrugged his wide shoulders.

  Wage typed: So what exactly isit that yo do?????

  Ada replied: I can compute complex mathematical calculations. I can analyze and correlate unrefined data if such data is properly inputted into my keyboard interface. I can intercept and replicate any telegraph transmission that crosses the central network I am connected to. I can comprehend French, Spanish, German, Greek, Latin, and a smidgeon of Russian. I can compose poetry as well as my father, and also, sir, I can provide you with the finer points on the proper discourse for gentlemen, as it relates to the formal addressing of proper ladies.

  The whole team huddled around the paper and read the message. “Jesus, Wage,” Mink said. “What were you saying to her?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Wage replied before typing: thank you Ada.that will be all. Wage finally turned to the rest of the team. He put his hands on his hips and said, “Well … that was entirely creepy.”

  “Captain, I believe you’ll want to read this,” Tesla said, handing him the original, intercepted message.

  Wage read the message. “Simon. It looks like your kid just saw Delacroix’s ship launch. According to him, it’s a funny-looking paddle steamer headed south.”

  Simon grabbed the paper and read it himself. “What’s the plan, sir?”

  “Yeah! How are we supposed to infiltrate a moving ship?” Dom asked.

  Wage took a deep breath. “All right, here’s the plan. Simon, I need you and Amber Rose to get eyes on that ship and provide us with its movement. Nikki, I need you and," Wage pointed his finger, " … Ada … to figure out the average speed of a paddle steamer and what train schedule outta New York will put them on an intercepting course.” Tesla went right to Ada’s keyboard and began typing. “Dom!”

  “Yes, sir!” Dom responded eagerly.

  “I need you to take my bike and head south to Memphis. There’s a man there I want you to see. I think he can help us get aboard that ship. Delacroix’s probably too scared to ride the rails now that he knows we can get to him, so he’s probably steamin’ down to the Gulf of Mexico to unload whatever the hell is on that reinforced ship of his.”

  “But what’s in Memphis? And you still haven’t told us how we are going to infiltrate that ship.”

  Wage put a hand on Dom’s shoulder and looked into his dark-blue lenses. “Dom, how do you feel about piloting a hot air balloon?” Wage said and smiled. “As for the rest of you, you got one hour to get ready. Grab your sparkers, pistols, rifles
, and comglobes because we’ll be piling into the Wasp and headin’ south." Wage paused. “Nikki, how's the old girl runnin’?”

  “I just changed the tires and oil,” he replied.

  “Great! We’ll iron out the details in transit. Any questions?”

  “What about Pani?” Quincey asked, hooking a thumb at her as she stood away from the group. Apparently, Ada made her uneasy.

  Wage whistled Grieg’s Hall of the Mountain King. Pani understood the command and nodded. But before she could dart away as she always did, Wage whistled another tune—Mozart’s Eine Kliene Nachtmusik. “Don’t worry,” Wage said. “I’ve got a different plan for her.”

  Peacemakers Incorporated

  April 4, 1915

  Above the Mississippi River

  South of Memphis, Tennessee

  Dominic licked his finger and checked the wind again. Wage, Simon, Amber Rose, Mink, and Quincey stood silently behind him. The six of them, all dressed in black, were crammed into a five-man basket suspended from a balloon the color of unlit charcoal. The basket and rigging lines were also a tar black, rendering the entire vehicle effectively invisible in the cloudy night sky—so long as long as Dom didn’t fire up the burner when the ship was in sight.

  The basket creaked as the wind took them away from the bank, stretching the rope that tethered them to the massive oak tree nearly 400 feet below. Dom had maneuvered them to the near-center of the Mississippi River, which reflected the dark sky and handful of stars that peeked out from between clouds. They had been hovering there roughly an hour, waiting for Delacroix’s luxury paddle steamer, Charon’s Wake.

  “Shit,” Dominic muttered under his breath.

  “Dominic,” Simon chided.

  “Sorry, Simon. It’s just that she’s startin’ to cool down, so we’re gonna lose some altitude.”

  “Can you give her some heat?” Wage asked.

  Dominic adjusted the lenses on his goggles and craned his neck. He focused down river through magnified yellow filters. “Sorry, sir. Looks like our ship has arrived. I fire her up now and we’re spotted.”

  Wage squinted and looked down river. “All right, everyone. Let’s get ready to crash this party. Everyone remember the plan? Quincey, you’re down first as soon as Dom hooks the boat.”

  Quincey double-checked the charge on his new sleek-looking rifle with small ringlets around the barrel. Another Tesla invention, the rifle could carry a larger battery, and thus, a longer, more powerful charge capable of shooting an arc of lightning more than 30 feet. Tesla called it the long-range electroballistic neurological impairing device. The rest of the team called it the really big sparker. Quincey, being the hunter that he was, nicknamed it Ellie May. The incapacitation it induced would last only a few minutes at most, so Quincey carried long strips of black leather to hog-tie the knocked-out victims. “Good to go,” he said, slapping the butt of his rifle before slinging it to his back, hitting Mink with his elbow as he did.

  “Ow, watch it, you big oaf,” Mink said.

  “Sorry, honeybee,” Quincey said, stretching his neck side to side.

  “Mink,” Wage said. “You remember your assignment?”

  “Yes, Wage. Infiltrate the ship and take up position on the bow to provide cover fire should anyone need it,” she replied, hooking a thumb toward the Springfield bolt-action rifle already slung across her back.

  “Excellent. Simon?” Wage said.

  “After touching down on the deck, I will make my way to the aft quarterdeck where I will check the staterooms for Delacroix.”

  “And …” Wage prompted.

  “And I will quickly apprehend him and prepare him for extraction,” Simon replied.

  “Amber Rose?” Wage asked.

  “So, let me get this straight—I’m going to use this thing?” she pointed to the metal hook on one side of her belt. “Slide all the way down this rope at breakneck speed onto a moving boat. Then, assuming I ain’t broke any legs, I will make my way to the wheelhouse, shoot the captain with this sparker,” she patted Tesla’s nonlethal pistol on the other side of her belt, “then I am going to signal a power down and try to keep her steady down the middle of the river until Dom arrives?”

  “Outstanding, Amber Rose. Dom?” Wage said.

  “Soon as the commotion dies down, I’m sliding down and takin’ control of the paddle-steamer.”

  “And …” Wage prompted.

  “And we will steam on to Vicksburg and drop anchor.”

  “There ya go!” Wage exclaimed. “Plan A!”

  Everyone turned and looked at him.

  “What?” Wage asked.

  “Care to tell us what Plan B is?” Mink asked with a smile.

  Wage smiled back and tipped his slouch hat, the only thing not black 400 feet above the Mississippi. “There’s no Plan B this time.”

  “I’d say she’s about two minutes out,” Dom said. “Get ready.” Dominic changed to red lenses and reached down for the coiled rope at his feet. He grabbed the hook attached to the rope and dangled it over the edge. He lowered the hook, which was wrapped in black cloth to avoid reflecting light and to dampen the noise it made when it hooked the railing of the paddle steamer. As the ship approached, he fed the rope faster and faster. He stopped only for a moment to adjust his goggles before the big moment came. He narrowly missed the smokestack that jutted up from behind the small wheelhouse on the top deck. “Steady. Steady,” Dom whispered to himself. “Almost … there … and … got it!” He tied off the remaining rope, making it go taut. The balloon jerked and tilted, causing everyone to nearly fall over. “Simon,” Dom called. “Unmoor us before we tear apart!”

  Simon reached over with his wonderarm and unhooked the mooring line. The line fell silently into the night air. Moments later, a faint splash could be heard as it sunk into murky depths of the Mississippi, which at the moment, felt more like the River Styx.

  The balloon careened through the air at an unsettling angle as Quincey tightly gripped his own hook and snagged the tow rope with it. “Here goes nothing,” he said, throwing one leg over the basket.

  “Be careful, Quincey,” Mink said.

  Quincey grunted as he heaved himself over the side. His heavy frame bounced initially on the rope, nearly toppling the entire basket, but the rope quickly went taut again and Quincey accelerated toward the deck of Charon’s Wake. Seconds later, Quincey dropped to the deck with unheralded athleticism, brought Ellie May to the ready, and went hunting for crewmen who might blow the whistle on the whole operation.

  “Mink. You’re up,” Wage announced.

  “Not yet,” she replied. “Simon, go ahead.”

  “On my way,” Simon said, clamping his metal fingers to the tethered rope. He rocked the basket like Quincey had but then recovered and glided through the night air. His landing was not as graceful as Quincey’s, but he performed a successful infiltration nonetheless.

  “Amber Rose,” Wage said.

  She smoothed back her strawberry-blonde ponytail, took a deep breath, and reminded herself, “You’re a Peacemaker, Amber Rose. You can do this.” She hooked onto the line and nimbly launched herself toward the paddle steamer. She also didn’t land as gracefully as Quincey, but was able to persevere and make her way to the ladder well that led to the wheelhouse on the top deck.

  That left only Mink, Wage, and Dom in the basket. “All right, mon chéri. You’re up.”

  Mink put a hand to the hook on her belt and turned around. “Wage … before I go … there’s something I have to say … ”

  Wage said nothing. The telegraph lines from his brain to his vocal chords went numb.

  “Wage … I … I just wanted to say … thank you. Thank you for saving me. Not letting me die from … you know … the whole poison thing.”

  “Mink. Mink, I …” Wage shook his head. The numbness was spreading throughout his entire body now.

  Mink steadied his shaking head with a tender hand across his cheek. And then, without warning, she kisse
d him.

  The numbness in Wage’s body turned to a searing heat as their lips opened and their tongues gently met. It was everything Wage remembered. Everything he had wanted. Everything he still wanted.

  Mink pulled back and grabbed him by the suspenders. “You be careful down there, Wage Pascal.” She freed the hook from her belt and in one fluid motion, hooked the line and sped off toward Charon’s Wake.

  There was an awkward silence in the basket. Wage turned to Dom, whose mouth was hanging open. Wage nodded and took off his slouch hat. He handed it to Dom. “Hold on to this for me, kid. I’ll be needing it back when this whole thing is over.”

  Dom took the old worn hat as reverently as if it were his first Holy Communion and placed it on his head. Wage nodded, turned, threw his own hook on the line, and sailed off into the night.

  Quincey Gartrell

  April 4, 1915

  Above Decks of Charon’s Wake

  South of Memphis, Tennessee

  Quincey landed on the second deck and rolled once to absorb the impact, his rifle jabbing into his back as he did. As he popped up from his roll, he had Ellie May at the ready, staring down her sights while simultaneously scanning for targets. For the moment, he remained undetected. He made his way to the closest corner, ducking beneath the portholes on the nearby bulkhead. He tuned his ears to listen for the sound of chattering sailors or footsteps, but all he heard was the drone of insects on the nearby shore and the ship’s paddle turning and rhythmically churning up the waters nearly 30 feet below him.

  His plan was simple—make his way toward the bow, neutralizing any target he saw. Once the deck was clear, he would signal to Mink, Amber Rose, and Simon. Then, he would post up at the entrance to the crew quarters. There was no sense in clearing the crew berthing, as most of them were probably retired for the night. Because it was nearly midnight, both Quincey and Simon theorized that only minimal crew would be working. A few men—maybe two—would be manning the boiler decks below, perhaps another two deckhands roaming about, and a pilot in the wheelhouse. Peeking around another corner and looking toward the bow, Quincey found his deckhands stepping out from a recently opened hatch. Both deckhands were brutish men wearing soiled dungarees. They huddled by the railing, sharing a cigarette and grumbling just beyond the effective range of his sparker.