Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “Sir, I am here to apprehend you, and I prefer to do it civilly. If you are disagreeable, then I shall have no choice but to use appropriate force,” Simon said.

  “Appropriate force? Is that right.” The ship lurched to one side. Delacroix bounced behind his paper, and Simon sidestepped to keep his balance

  “What was …” Simon had no chance to finish his sentence as a loud shot rang out, tearing a gaping hole in the newspaper. Simon flinched as the bullet blazed off his wonderarm with a zing. Two more shots rang out but went high as Simon stumbled to the ground. He aimed his wonderarm and discharged his sparker. A jolt of electricity careened for Delacroix, but it hit the wooden arm of his chair. The blue wave of energy forced Delacroix to miss his next three shots as his chair toppled.

  Simon scrambled to his feet and fired his sparker again, the blast absorbed by the cushions. Delacroix, hiding behind the downed chair, lifted his revolver and fired blindly.

  Simon heard the distinct click of an empty revolver.

  “It’s over, Delacroix!” he shouted, taking cautious step closer. “I’ve the upper hand. Place your hands in the air immediately.” Simon stood over the chair now, looking down at a cowering Delacroix.

  “Please, please,” Delacroix whimpered, lying prone on the floor. “Don’t shoot!”

  “Hands, sir,” Simon demanded.

  “All right. All right,” Delacroix said as he dropped his pistol and lifted his arms feebly.

  “Stand up, slowly, and turn around.”

  Delacroix gradually rose to his feet.

  “Turn around. Now.”

  Delacroix’s wire-rim glasses dangled on the edge of his nose, and the few hairs that bridged his balding head were now scattered in every direction. “You made the same mistake as your friend,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The last agent. The one who died after boarding my train.”

  Simon notched an eyebrow.

  “You left the door open behind you.” Delacroix’s eyes darted to the open doorway.

  Simon’s attention was immediately diverted. He looked toward the door. No one else was in the room. Delacroix dove into Simon's back and both men fell to the floor.

  Thin and wiry as Delacroix was, it hurt like hell when his boney fists found Simon’s kidneys. Simon managed to flip to his back, but Delacroix maintained his position atop him. Now, Delacroix’s fists found Simon’s neck and head. Simon shielded himself and tried to fire the sparker, but it only fizzled. Delacroix, trying his damnest to find the killing blow, buried his fist into Simon’s metal forearm. Simon heard bones break.

  Delacroix yelped in pain and held his right hand. Simon took full advantage of the moment, using his wonderarm to grab the disgraced judge by the lapels of his silk pajamas and fling him across the room into the adjacent bulkhead.

  Simon jumped to his feet, mouth bleeding, and tried to remember his directive—to apprehend Delacroix for extraction, and keep him intact for questioning. That directive, however, got buried six feet below his current anger and Darwinian sense of survival. Delacroix staggered to his feet, using the wall for assistance.

  “The agent you think you killed is still very much alive,” Simon huffed.

  “I’m gonna make it my life’s mission to eliminate every last one of you Peacemaker—”

  Simon charged the man with his wonderarm cocked back, ready to deal a knock-out blow. Delacroix tried to block it, but it hit like a freight train with a full head of steam. Simon’s clenched metal fist hammered Delacroix’s chest, breaking and caving in his sternum so that it collapsed on his beating heart. Simon nearly punched through him, feeling his freight-train fist hit and crack the wood paneled wall behind Delacroix.

  A fluid-filled death rattle escaped Delacroix’s mouth, along with an outpouring of blood. The dying man looked over his spectacles and into the maddening eyes of Simon Hum. Simon continued to convulse with anger. Delacroix moved his lips but made no sound. Like a fish out of water.

  Simon withdrew his fist, and Delacroix slid limply to the ground.

  Wage W. Pascal

  April 4, 1915

  Boiler Deck of Charon’s Wake

  South of Memphis, Tennessee

  Wage opened the hatch as quietly as he could. A ladder well, freshly painted like every other fixture on the ship, led down to the dimly lit boiler deck. With his Colt Peacemaker at the ready, Wage cautiously descended the steps. Halfway down he now saw firsthand what Colonel Roosevelt had drawn on the board months ago. Only there was an entire battalion of the enormous metal men, perfectly arranged in military columns. Each row contained seven of the machines resting shoulder-to-shoulder and the columns extended almost the entire length of the ship’s lowest deck. All of them were painted the color of an overcast sky. Wage guessed that there were upwards of 50 of the sentinels Roosevelt had dubbed “warmongers.”

  “Well, I think I figured out why they needed to reinforce this deck,” Wage whispered to himself.

  The ladder well ended about midway down the large column of metal soldiers. Wage stepped onto the deck and slowly advanced down the row closest to him, paying attention to each machine’s eyes and wondering if they could see him. Were they awake? He stopped in front of one and waved his hand high. The machine did nothing. He tapped the barrel of Ol’ Snapper against the massive iron chest plate. A hollow clang ensued and echoed across the deck. The machine didn’t seem to notice. None of them did.

  That’s when he heard another sound a few rows over. It was the faint sound of a match being struck. Wage hustled to the end of his row and turned down the column, peeking into each row before traversing it. Three rows down, he saw a man in a three-piece suit and bowler hat leaning against one of the warmongers, casually smoking a cigarette. Only the machine the ghostly man leaned on had its chest plate open, much like a ship’s hatch. Wage gritted his teeth and steadied his revolver on the former Rough Rider.

  “Corporal Blake,” Wage said, stepping slightly into view.

  Mortimer Blake inhaled his cigarette. “Captain Pascal,” he replied, pushing his coat to the side, revealing a shiny Colt Peacemaker of his own in a cross-draw holster and fixed to a belt lined with .45 caliber bullets. Mortimer rested a hand on the rabbit fur-lined handle of his revolver.

  “Don’t even think about it, Blake,” Wage said.

  “Oh, I’m thinkin’ about it,” Mortimer replied, flicking the ash from his cigarette with his free hand.

  “Thought you were working for the masked men? What are you doin’ on Delacroix’s ship?”

  “The Triumvirate wanted to protect their investment,” Mortimer said, knocking his fist on the warmonger behind him. “Didn’t want you Peacekeepers mucking the whole thing up.”

  “Peacemakers,” Wage corrected. “Where’re these things going?”

  “Boarding a moving river boat, I must say that was a bold move. How’d you do it?”

  “Hot air balloon,” Wage replied casually. “Now, what’s your plan? Tell me, and you might just walk outta here alive.”

  “My plan?” Mortimer snickered. “My plan is to kill you. But I’m sure my sister has already informed you of that little tidbit.”

  “I meant the machines. What’s the plan for them? Where’re they headed?”

  “These things here?” Mortimer left the cigarette in his mouth and waved his hand all around. “These things are going to the war front.”

  “Fightin’ for who?”

  “Does it matter?” Mortimer replied, tapping the handle of his revolver with his index finger.

  “Hand. Off. The gun,” Wage commanded.

  Mortimer continued to tap his finger and stare at Wage.

  “I mean it, Corporal. There’s no way you can skin that thing in time,” Wage lied. Corporal Blake was, quite frankly, the only man who could out-shoot him. Wage was fast, but Mortimer had always been faster.

  “You remember training in San Antonio, Captain? Gettin’ ready for our Cuban expedition? You and I were t
he same age. Both recruited personally by Colonel Roosevelt himself. But did you ever ask yourself why he promoted you to officer? I was better than you in every way. And you know it.” Mortimer’s cigarette hung between his fingers now as he pointed at Wage.

  “Shut your trap, Corporal,” Wage snapped.

  “It was your daddy’s money that got you promoted.”

  Wage stared at Mortimer in silence.

  “Should’ve been me.”

  “You remember shootin’ our way up San Juan Hill?” Wage asked.

  “Like it was yesterday.”

  “I remember it, too. I remember squinting in the sunlight firing round after round. I remember moving slowly, methodically, and breathing heavy as I reloaded. I remember rallying men who fell. I remember reassuring them we were going to make it to the top. And you know what else?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I remember being scared out of my damn mind,” Wage added.

  “And?”

  “And you know what I remember you doin’? Laughing. Laughing with every bullet that left your barrel and found its way into a Spaniard’s chest. You weren’t the least bit scared, Corporal. You weren’t the least bit scared because killin’ is what you do. What you crave. But killers,” Wage shook his head, “killers don’t inspire men. The only thing you ever inspired was fear. Because no sane man laughs while charging a heavily fortified hill. No sane man laughs on the battlefield. No sane man laughs at takin’ some poor sap’s life. People don’t follow crazy like that. And Corporal Blake … you are one crazy son of a—”

  Mortimer snatched his gun from its holster and fired a single shot before Wage could fully depress his own trigger. Luckily, Wage’s instincts told him to duck back behind the warmonger he stood by. He could hear the high-pitched squeal as the bullet careened past his head. Wage fired Ol’ Snapper blindly from his covered position. Three shots followed by three dull iron clangs and the zing of three ricochets. Mortimer expertly placed two shots of his own. Both rounds came uncomfortably close, but were ultimately deflected by the warmonger’s tree trunk-sized leg.

  Wage made a quick decision to dive across to the next row of warmongers. As he did, he capitalized on what would probably be his only clear shot. It was a gamble taking a shot while in motion at another moving target, but Wage didn’t hear the clang or zing of a ricochet. He had heard the sound of Mortimer’s gun, though. He landed hard against the deck and scrambled to completely conceal himself behind another warmonger. And that’s when he noticed a bullet-sized chunk of his boot missing by the toes. “Too close,” Wage told himself.

  He heard Mortimer grunt and quickly peaked down the row. Mortimer was climbing inside the warmonger with the open hatch. Wage fired his last two shots at him, but not before the hatch closed. Wage finally stood and threw open Ol’ Snapper’s cylinder, expelling the empty brass shells. While constantly scanning the row, Wage nimbly reloaded his revolver with the bullets that lined the back of his belt. He could have reloaded Ol’ Snapper in complete darkness if he needed. He finally locked back the cylinder with a flick of his wrist and turned down the row. “Come on out of there, Mortimer. It’s over! We have the ship. Mortimer? Mortimer!”

  Nothing. No response.

  Wage crept up to the warmonger Mortimer had found shelter in. Below it, small puddles of blood stained the deck. Wage put his ear to the warmonger and heard stirring inside. He tapped the machine with his gun. “I know you’re in there, Mortimer. And I know you’re injured. Let’s work something out, now!”

  Something happened to the machine. The giant metal man seemed to stir to life with a massive groan. Its eyes lit up, and its once-slumping shoulders rose and stiffened with the sound of creaking metal. The warmonger was now awake.

  “Oh, shit,” Wage said, backing up as the massive suit of armor took a step forward. Another sound emanated from inside, but it was not a mechanical one. It sounded more like … laughter. The warmonger’s eyes turned red and raised its left arm. The two-pronged claw spun slightly and clamped together.

  “Ohhh, shit,” Wage said again as the colossal arm swung with a wide, fly-swatting arch. The clawed hand caught Wage’s side, knocking Ol’ Snapper from his grip and launching him across the row. Wage slid until he crashed against the skin of the ship, striking the hull hard enough that it rang like a bell. It took only a second for Wage to register that Mortimer’s warmonger had turned 90 degrees and now faced him. This time the right arm rose to reveal a string of bullets that hung down like a wing. Wage stared down the 10 barrels of a Gatling gun. “Aww, shit,” Wage muttered before hurrying to his feet. The 10 barrels spun and spit out a storm of bullets that streamed forth like angry bees from a disturbed hive. The warmonger’s arm traced Wage’s path, sending rounds tumbling and sparking off other warmongers and the reinforced hull and deck. Wage sprinted aft toward the boiler and paddle, feeling the thrum of the warmonger’s heavy footsteps in his own feet.

  There were only two warmongers in the last row, and they were separated by coal boxes and the massive boiler that turned the paddle. Two sailors, boilermen, crouched behind those coal boxes. “Hey!” Wage shouted, squaring off with a warmonger. “Hey! How do you get in these goddamn things?”

  Both sailors looked dumbfounded. That’s when a tiny bell jingled rapidly. They all looked up to see the bell case. Wage didn’t know a whole lot about the inner workings of paddle steamers, but he assumed that was the signal to either speed up or slow down. “Tell me how to get in these things!” Wage yelled. He saw one sailor shrug and the other make an inappropriate gesture like he was feeling up a lady. “What?”

  Wage could feel the heavy footfalls speed up.

  “Shit!” He sprinted down the row as more bullets flew. He stopped at the end in front of another warmonger and concentrated on the bolted chest plate. “Come on, you bastard. Open up.” He pulled hard on the hatch. Then, awkwardly, he began twisting the bolts on its chest. “Come on,” he pleaded. Finally, one of the bolts, roughly at the three o’clock position, budged. Wage twisted, pulled, and tugged it. Something inside the machine popped, and the hatch released.

  The chest plate swung open. “Hallelujah!”

  That’s when he heard the whine of the Gaiting gun again. “Shit!” Leaving the chest plate open, he sprinted toward the bow as fast as he could. He cut left at one of the last rows of warmongers, went midway down, and approached another metal man. He groped at it, and once again, the chest plate popped open. Wage grabbed an assist bar on the inside of the machine and hoisted himself up into it.

  Inside, his feet fell into two stirrups a halfway down each leg. The stirrups suspended him in such a manner that he could see out the viewport eyes and extend his arms almost halfway down the warmonger’s arms, where small harnesses rested. “Whoa!”

  Wage’s awe lasted only a moment before he slammed shut the hatch and pushed down the locking lever. “OK. Now, how do we get this thing moving?” Wage looked around. “Gotta find a way to turn you on.” That’s when he found a toggle switch over his right shoulder that read ON. “All right, then. Let us commence with this evening’s activities.”

  The machine came to life. The finger-width tubes that ran around him seemed to charge with pressure. Whatever engine drove this monstrosity hummed and shook behind him. The vibration made Wage’s back tingle and his hair stand up slightly. He fumbled around each arm harness and found a handle bar, buttons, and multiple triggers on each one. He grabbed the left hand bar and shoved it forward. He could feel gears grinding as the clawed arm rose. “OK. OK!” Wage moved his right foot forward in the stirrup. More gears turned, and the right leg of the warmonger stepped forward. “Ah, shit yeah!” Wage exclaimed and then powered his left foot forward.

  He was walking now. But he needed to turn. So he twisted his foot in one stirrup, and the anatomically equivalent leg turned also. Wage completed a 90-degree turn to the left. “All right,” he assured himself. “I’m gettin’ the hang of this!”

  That’
s when he saw Mortimer’s warmonger and the end of the row. “Shit.” Wage said again, managing to lift both arms benignly. “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered. Mortimer’s Gatling arm spun and fired a barrage of bullets that dented Wage’s warmonger. The sound was something akin to thunderous hail hitting a tin roof. Wage yelled and fingered one of the triggers near his right hand. The white cabin light went off, and a red one came on, dimming the cabin, relaxing his eyes, and allowing him to take in more of his surroundings. A fog of gray smoke—or at least that’s what it looked like through red eyes—erupted from his clawed hand. “What the …” Wage depressed another trigger near the same hand, and a torrent of flame rushed out from the clawed hand. “Dammit!” he screamed over the clangor of high-caliber bullets hitting his machine.

  He pressed and held one of the buttons on his left hand. The Gatling gun barrels spun. Wage screamed louder. He couldn’t see much through the fog and smoke, but he pulled another trigger on his left hand anyway. He could feel the ammunition chain spooling into his right arm as a whirlwind of bullets raced toward Mortimer. Bright white flashes flickered all around Mortimer’s warmonger and the surrounding machines.

  Wage stomped forward through the haze, firing and hollering the whole time.

  Mortimer retreated by walking backward and turning aft.

  Wage smiled. Regardless of the weapons involved, battle never changed. Fighting never changed. “Automaton my ass,” he said.

  With a renewed vigor, Wage pressed forward, striding confidently and eager to see what the other triggers did. As he rounded the corner and looked down the column of innocuous iron soldiers, he saw Mortimer’s warmonger turning into another row further down. Wage pushed his legs harder and his own warmonger picked up speed. He slowed as he came to the row Mortimer had escaped down. Mortimer stood at the end of it with his Gatling arm lifted. But some device protruded from the top, not unlike Simon’s mortar launcher. “Oh shit,” Wage muttered before a flame leapt from Mortimer’s extended arm. Wage didn’t see the mortar fly down the row as he tried to turn and run, but he felt the concussion from the ensuing blast that toppled him. The same blast tore a gaping hole in the hull at the water line, causing the paddle steamer to take on water.