Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  Different shades of blue and white paint checkered the entire submarine, making it look like a harlequin’s outfit. Some of the squares were stretched and others were compressed. The distortion made it extremely difficult to find a definitive pattern.

  “It looks different,” Tesla commented.

  “Yes, sir. We had a fella design the paint scheme. This dazzle paint makes us a difficult target to track when we’re steaming above the water,” the petty officer responded.

  “Who designed it?” Tesla asked.

  Petty Officer Bain snapped his fingers a few times. After the fifth snap, he finally remembered. “Pablo Picasso! He did a show in New York last year. Drew all sorts of things with cubes, anyway. So, the skipper had him draw us up this paint scheme for us.”

  “How does the paint protect you? Like camouflage, or something?” Amber Rose asked.

  Tesla answered before Petty Officer Bain could. “Artillery targeting at sea requires specialized optics. This paint would, in theory, make it difficult to determine true shape, speed, and even heading. This is really quite brilliant. Has it worked?”

  “We’re still here, ain’t we?” the petty officer replied as he started to row toward the stern of the Harlequin. The veteran sailor pulled parallel and nearly flush with the sub. He nodded to Amber Rose and said, “Do me a solid, ma’am, and throw that rope there …” he started to say when Tesla reached out his arm. The scientist’s wingspan was large enough that he could reach a stanchion four feet away and firmly brace their small craft. “Whoa. I’ve seen albatross with smaller wingspans,” the petty officer said, impressed.

  Once atop the submarine, Petty Officer Bain stopped them. “Agent Tesla, sir. We’ve provided a stateroom for you. You’ll be sharing with the lieutenant. I’d watch your noggin, too. These are small, tight spaces. Ain’t exactly meant for men of your height. Ma’am,” he nodded to Amber Rose, “We’ve arranged a special quarters for you.”

  “What do you mean ‘special quarters?’”

  “Well, ma’am. They don’t allow women on naval ships. And, well, we don’t exactly allow ‘em on submarines, either. Not to worry, though. You will be right at home … in dry storage.”

  “What!” Amber Rose yelled. “Now you listen hear, you Cracker Jack lookin’ son of a—”

  The main hatch atop the bridge opened with a loud squeak from its salted hinges. A man in a standard-issue dark trench coat, also with the collar turned up, climbed out. He stood atop the bridge looking down at the three of them. His bleached white wheel cap was almost the same color as the stubble on his cheeks and slanted so much atop his head that it nearly fell off. He placed his hands in his pockets and cast a stare that would have startled Poseidon himself. “Agents,” he exclaimed gruffly from one side of his mouth. “Welcome to the Harlequin.”

  Amber Rose

  January 22, 1915

  The Harlequin

  200 Nautical Miles off the Coast of England

  Both her knuckles bled, leaving coppery red smears on the canvas sea bag, which was filled with dirty uniforms and sand typically reserved for smothering engine fires. She wore a sailor’s denim dungarees with sleeves torn off, revealing thin, sculpted arms that would make a longshoreman shudder. Sweat and rage spilled from every pore as she relentlessly punched the bag that hung from a chain, which formerly secured the crates around her in dry storage. She breathed heavily as she weaved about the bag, throwing a combination of punches similar to the ones she saw Monomi throw back at Edison’s compound. Occasionally she would even use her knees and elbows. Amber Rose’s longing for Simon’s rough, but strangely soothing, touch fueled her relentless onslaughts. As did being treated as more of a prisoner than a federal agent aboard this floating coffin.

  The hatch behind her opened with a clang. The same wide-framed sailor who had been charged with safeguarding her all week cleared his throat. “Ma’am,” he said with a voice full of gravel. The mechanic’s mate, who had a permanent squint and the outlines of naked women tattooed in green ink all over his forearms, had one job on this deployment—ensure Amber Rose does not interact with the all-male crew of the Harlequin. She remembered Captain Galloway’s salty voice: “Women don’t belong on war vessels. They ruin men’s morale and jeopardize their own safety. You’ll be sequestered in dry storage until we arrive in England. My boat. My rules.”

  “You’ve a visitor,” the mechanic’s mate continued, hooking a thumb toward the hatch. That’s when Amber Rose noticed the tattoos across his fingers just below the knuckles. One set of fingers had “SINK” written across it. The other read “SWIM.”

  Tesla bent over and stepped through the hatch. He couldn’t stand up straight anywhere on the submarine, and the countless bumps and bruises on his scalp proved that he had not yet learned to negotiate the tightly confined spaces. He sat down on a small crate and rubbed his neck. “I just came from above deck,” the scientist said. He pulled his purple comglobe from his pocket and placed the handheld communicator next to him. “I was able to reach Colonel Roosevelt.”

  “What’s the latest?” Amber Rose asked as the mechanic’s mate curiously inspected her makeshift punching bag. “How did Simon’s mission go?”

  Tesla cleared his throat but remained stoically quiet.

  “Dammit, Nikki. Tell me! Is Simon OK?”

  “He is fine, but Dominic has suffered a horrific injury,” he said nonchalantly, as though he were giving a stranger directions on a crowded street.

  She breathed only a mild sigh of relief, but then her concern for Simon changed to concern for Dominic. She liked Dom. He was young, like her, and easy to talk to. They even smoked the same brand of cigarettes. “What happened to Dom?” she asked.

  “He was exposed to some kind of lethal, corrosive gas. He may have suffered permanent ocular damage,” Tesla said. “Doctors think he will recover, but his eyes …” he trailed off, shaking his head.

  “What’s going to happen to him?”

  Tesla tapped the side of his head. “I have already begun working on something that may help him. When we return to New York and I see him, I should be able to outfit him appropriately.”

  “What about Mink?” Amber Rose continued. “Did she board the train? Catch Delacroix?”

  “The details are still unclear to me, but she appears to have been poisoned. Doctors are unsure if she will make it,” Tesla said calmly, as though telling someone they dropped their handkerchief.

  “What?” Amber Rose said in shock. Never mind being one of the toughest women she knew—Mink Callahan was one of the toughest human beings she had ever met. In short, Amber Rose idolized Mink. A fellow female agent who was utilized for her perfect blend of intellect, beauty, and deadliness. Amber Rose resented the fact that she was utilized for only one thing. The thing that apparently ruins men’s morale. “Mink … no. No!”

  “I am very sorry,” Tesla said without emotion, still rubbing his neck.

  Amber Rose turned toward her punching bag. She shoved the mechanic’s mate out of the way so hard that he nearly fell over a crate. She began wailing on the bag, screaming with every punch and exhale. The bag rocked violently, and she pressed her attack, still talking through each breath and strike. “What. The. Hell. Is. Wrong. With. You?” She adjusted her stance and resumed her attack. “Do. You. Feel. Nothing. For. Our. Friends?”

  Tesla stared in, what was for him, wonderment.

  “What. The. Hell. Are. We. Going. To. Do?” she said while punching. Then she stopped. The bag continued to swing.

  “We are going to England to find an intelligent automaton,” Tesla replied matter-of-factly.

  Amber Rose’s chest heaved up and down. Drenched in sweat, her strawberry blond hair turned to more of a weathered rust. The mechanic’s mate lifted a consoling hand to her. She smacked it away and side-kicked him, her boot hitting him square in the crotch. He dropped like an anchor. She stepped forward and pointed a finger at Tesla. “How can you be so goddamn heartless? Were you born without
a soul or something? What the hell is a matter with ya?”

  The mechanic’s mate groaned on the deck.

  Tesla looked into Amber Rose’s dark eyes. They were melted chocolate flecked with a candied blue. His own eyes were the same cold, steel gray of the very submarine that contained them. “My father was an Orthodox priest,” he finally said. “He was … a believer in the human soul. He used to tell me I possessed one. Given to me by God. But I always took a more scientific approach. I always wondered where the soul resides in the body. Where can I find it?”

  “What?” Amber Rose asked, confused.

  “Suppose that I find this automaton that Colonel Roosevelt wants. Or at least acquire what we need to reconstruct it. An automaton that thinks. Feels. Perceives. And suppose I give you all the wrenches you need to open up that machine and inspect its components. Inside, you will see a variety of functional pieces, much like the human body, yes? Machinery that has a specific function. Machinery that enables it to walk. To speak. Much like the eye’s function is to see, and the heart’s is to circulate blood. But of all the components you will see in that automaton, will you see anything that explains perception? Explains thought? Explains … feelings? What component is ultimately responsible for that? For this automaton? For us?”

  Amber Rose breathed steadily now. “Maybe that’s what your soul is, then? Your thoughts and feelings.”

  “I have always thought about this,” Tesla continued. “I have always thought about this because this is the difference between men and beasts. Men and machines, no? The soul.” Tesla paused. “And we have been tasked to find one. Perhaps even reconstruct one. And if my father is correct, that means man we could be playing God.”

  “We?”

  “It will take a great deal of mathematical computation to understand this, and you compute numbers almost as fast as I can.” Tesla smiled. It was an awkward smile, but the first sign of, what was for him, a successful joke. The first sign of, what Amber Rose thought, was a soul.

  “But what if we fail? End up like the others? Hurt or dyin’?” Amber Rose asked.

  “Uncertainties are the only absolute. They will always exist, Amber Rose. So it makes no sense to fear them.”

  “If not fear them, then what? Love them?”

  Tesla shrugged his shoulders.

  Amber Rose breathed in deeply. You’re a Peacemaker, Amber Rose she reminded herself. Do this for Mink. Do this for Dom. She turned toward the mechanic’s mate, apologized, and helped him up to his feet. He clasped his hand with hers, the word SWIM across his fingers in plain view now. She turned to Tesla. “So how exactly are we going to do this?” she asked.

  “There was once a man in London,” Tesla announced. “His name was Charles Babbage.”

  Wage W. Pascal

  February 1, 1915

  Knickerbocker Hospital

  Harlem, New York

  Mink had been virtually comatose since Colonel Roosevelt had her transferred back to New York for treatment all the while whispering, “Poison. Poison.” Her occasional waking would bring about such ear-piercing screams of pain that the doctors kept her on a steady diet of morphine. Wage ran his hand down Mink’s pale, sunken cheek. In between fever sweats, it was cool to the touch. Two days ago she could no longer keep down the porridge the nurses spoon-fed her three times daily, so she had begun wasting away in front of his eyes. This was no fairytale slumber, but he bent over and kissed her on the forehead, secretly hoping to wake her. “Don’t you leave me, now, Mink Callahan. Don’t you leave me,” he whispered.

  Colonel Roosevelt silently entered the private room partitioned off from the main treatment wing by white curtains. “Any signs of improvement?” he asked.

  Wage shook his head. “Gettin’ worse, I suspect, since she stopped eating.”

  “Do you know why I brought her here, Major?”

  Wage shook his head.

  “I brought her here because this place is on the cutting edge of medicine. You won’t find better treatment in all the world. If there is a way to save her, Dr. Bronson will find it.” Roosevelt put a hand on Wage’s shoulder.

  “Have they identified the poison yet?” Wage asked.

  “It could be any number of them.”

  “What about the Witchdoctor?”

  “What about him?” the Colonel snapped.

  “Can he save her?”

  Roosevelt took off his glasses and massaged his temples. “He is … uncooperative. Refuses to help. So he will rot in his cell at Sing Sing, rest assured.”

  “He may know how to save her, sir. I wanna see him,” Wage demanded.

  “I told you. He’s uncooperative,” Roosevelt replied.

  Wage clenched his fist. “I can’t lose her, sir. I. Can’t.”

  “I know it’s hard, Wage. Losing your best friend. Losing your father. Almost losing Dom. And now this ….” He gestured to the sleeping Mink whose pale skin looked angelic in the electric light. White sheets covered her almost to the neck and her red hair draped the pillows that propped her up.

  “How is Dom doing?” Wage asked, avoiding the conversation Roosevelt wanted to have.

  The colonel sighed. “Dr. Bronson says he will no doubt recover. But he’s lost his eyelids. And he’s also got a whole host of scar tissue on his face and hands. I’ve sent word to Nikki. He’s going to whip up a contraption to help Dom with his eyes. In the meantime, Dr. Bronson is working on developing a new technique to transfer skin. He calls it flapping. Transferring skin from one part of the body to the other. So maybe down the road, he’ll be able to give Dom back his eyelids.” Roosevelt put his hands on his hips. “Like I said, cutting edge.”

  “Has Simon made any progress?” Wage inquired.

  “He’s in Pittsburg scouring every den, brothel, and bar to get a lead on Delacroix. Nothing yet.”

  “Gents,” Quincey said as he entered the room. He carried a small ledger with him. He pulled a small chair closer to Mink’s bed and sat down. He gripped her hand tightly and kissed her cheek. “Good evening, honeybee. I missed you,” he said before leaning back and opening his ledger.

  “What’ve you got there, Quincey?” Wage asked.

  “Oh, this? I’ve designed the invitations for our wedding. I thought we might go over our guest list tonight. You know, give people plenty of time to make accommodations.”

  “She can’t hear you, Quincey,” Wage said.

  Quincey finally took his eyes off Mink. “Major. If it’s OK with you, I’d like to be alone with my fiancée.”

  Wage clenched his fists so tightly that the tendons in his forearms flared. Suddenly, Mink breathed deeply and moaned faintly, like an infant having dream. Wage’s arms went limp as Mink resumed her sleep.

  “Please, Wage,” Quincey said.

  Roosevelt put his hand on Wage’s shoulder again. “Listen to me …” Wage walked off with a deliberate shrug.

  Wage made his way past seven other beds to the far end of the white-washed wing where Dom lay flat on his back, tapping his scarred fingers against the mattress. Thick gauze covered his eyes, and his face was still a tender red covered mass with waxy scar tissue. “You look good, Dom,” Wage said.

  “Hey, Major,” Dom replied with a smile that must have hurt his face. His voice was still hoarse.

  “Doc says you gonna be alright,” Wage announced. “Have you right as rain in no time.”

  “Yeah. The Colonel said Nikki is going to help me with my eyes. Do you think he can do it, Major? Do you think he can fix my eyes?”

  “I’m pretty sure there’s not a whole hellova lot he can’t fix, Dom. Hell, he’s in London as we speak so tryin' to build a thinkin’ automaton.”

  “Can he fix up Mink?” Dominic asked.

  Wage bit his lip and held back tears. “Not sure she’s as lucky, kid.”

  “Geez. I’m really sorry about that, Major,” Dom said.

  Wage spotted Dr. Silas Bronson walking into the wing with the sleeves of lab coat rolled to his elbow.
He was man in his 40s with a distinguished, square jaw and a dark-haired pompadour plastered together with half a tin of pomade. He was looking at a chart while simultaneously stroking his painter’s brush moustache. He briskly made his way back to Mink’s room, oblivious as to anyone’s presence.

  “So, Major, whatever happened to our guy? At the warehouse?” Dom asked. “No one’s told me anything on account of they only want me to focus on my recovery.”

  Wage kept his eyes on the Mink’s curtained room. “I’m afraid he didn’t make it, Dom. The Colonel had some scientists look at what he was cookin’ up, though. They got to callin’ it brimstone gas. I guess it’s worse than what some Germans have been cookin’ up. Colonel calls it an extremely dangerous vesicant.”

  “So did we recover any of the sulfur crates?”

  “We recovered the crates, but no sulfur,” Wage said. “Those scientists I mentioned believe sulfur was the primary ingredient in making the brimstone gas.”

  “Damn.” Dom shook his head blindly. “What are we gonna do? I mean, if Delacroix is connected to the sulfur, and the sulfur makes this brimstone, what’s Delacroix planning on doing with it?”

  “Not sure, kid. But Simon’s up in Pittsburg looking into it,” Wage replied.

  “Oh, man. I wish I were with him right now. I would make that Delacroix pay somethin’ fierce.” Dom held up two clenched fists.

  “Easy, now.” Wage put a hand on the young man’s chest. “You get some rest. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Major?”

  “Yeah, kid?”

  “I did all right out there, didn’t I? In the field, I mean?”

  “You did great, Dom. You did great,” Wage replied softly, walking back toward Mink’s bed.