Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

“Now, as I was saying,” Edison continued, “there exists an organization with unimaginable, global reach. They control more than you know, and have controlled it since the beginning of civilization.”

  “Does this organization have a name?” Wage asked.

  “Over the millennia they have had many names, but we refer to them as The Hand.”

  “The Hand? Well that sounds downright scary, don’t it?” Wage said sarcastically. “Is there a Foot, too? How about an Ass?” Wage said, laughing into his tumbler.

  “You are the only ass here, Mr. Pascal, and I am beginning to think that Monomi chose the wrong men for our service.”

  Ol’ Bill put an arm on Wage. “Terribly sorry, sir. He means no disrespect; we are just a little confused is all.”

  “Very well, I will start from the beginning, so pay attention. Tens of thousands of years ago, our predecessors were hunters and gatherers, organized into cave-dwelling clans.”

  “You mean we were monkeys; isn’t that what Darwin said, Mr. Edison? How’s about that, William? We ain’t nothing but monkey children!” Wage slapped Ol’ Bill on the shoulder. Wage was now something he hadn’t been in a while. Noticeably drunk. The chairs continued to creak.

  “No,” Edison said patiently. “Millions of years ago we came from a common ancestor. Thousands of years ago, we were hunters and gatherers; wandering all about creation in search of food and shelter. We lived, Mr. Pascal, for the day.” Wage sat back and smiled impossibly wide, the potency of Edison’s moonshine coursing through his veins. “We remained in this state until a handful of clever individuals invented sedentary agriculture.”

  “Seductive agri-what?” Wage asked.

  “Farming, Mr. Pascal. Farming. The invention that allowed us to remain geographically fixed, the invention that allowed us to survive idly through the winter with a surplus of grain and barley. A surplus that, in time, produced boredom.”

  “Boredom?” Bill repeated.

  “Yes, boredom. It was not necessary for us to hunt and gather in the winter months, so we sat around our dwellings, bored. And while necessity is the mother invention, boredom is its silent partner. We began to create new things. Writing. Tools. Pottery. The wheel. Roads. Trade. Wealth. And cities.”

  “So . . .” Wage said, finishing his glass and stifling another cough.

  “So, when another city experiences a drought and is on the brink of starvation, what will they do?”

  “Take someone else’s food!” Wage said proudly as he reached for Ol’ Bill’s glass of moonshine.

  “Correct. Steal another city’s food, which required that city to protect itself, thus the people needed to elect a war leader. Someone with the martial skill to lead people in the defense of their city, their food, their accumulated wealth, their very livelihood. A war leader would eventually become a formalized leader, who would, in turn, create a formalized hierarchy. A hierarchy that would lead us to the complex societies like the ones we have today. ”

  “Get to the point, Edison,” Wage said, now slurring his words.

  “Imagine that the first formal leaders our human race ever produced never actually lost their power. They simply transferred it to the newer generations. Future generations who retreated to the shadows and influenced everyone and everything with their continued accumulation of wealth.” Edison fumed and then took another breath. “Imagine they destroyed the Tower of Babel and built the pyramids of Egypt. Imagine they forged the Qin Dynasty and annihilated the Romans. Imagine they sparked the Hundred Years’ War and ended the American Revolution. Imagine that just over a month ago, they assassinated the Archduke of Austria-Hungry, sparking what will be the largest war this world has ever seen. And imagine that we may be the only ones who can stop it!

  “The Archduke? Franz Ferdinand? They were behind that?” Bill asked.

  “We believe so,” Edison said. “For years, they have been putting the pieces in place for this.”

  “Who is ‘we,’ again?” Wage asked.

  Edison stood up and slammed both hands on his desk. “We have also had many names. Simply put, however, we are the Enlightened Ones, Keepers of the Flame, the ones who have kept The Hand at bay for centuries, and you two will help us continue to do so. We are the Illuminati!” Edison slammed a fist against the desk again.

  “Illuminati?” Wage said, stunned. He looked all around the laboratory. “You all look like a bunch of scientists! What the hell good are a bunch of scientists?”

  Edison shook his head. His mop of white hair shifted like a spectral wheat field as he did. “Do you know the difference between astronomy and astrology, Mr. Pascal?”

  “Uh . . .” Wage pondered.

  “Astrology is the analysis of planetary motion as they influence human interactions and events, thus making said interactions predictable,” Bill said. “Astronomy uses math and physics to explain what we actually see in the sky.”

  “Wow!” Wage said, impressed. “You get all that from reading the papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Astrology, gentlemen, does not propel the human race forward. It hinders us—keeps us stuck in one place, too afraid to move for fear of upsetting fictitious cosmic forces. Astronomy, one the other hand, is real. It is science!” Edison’s eyes widened. “It is rooted in the cold hard fact that our universe is incomprehensibly large. The human race is alone, stranded on a planet that is hopelessly lost in an ocean of stars. But science is our compass. Science teaches us not to fear this fact, but to understand it, to RISE ABOVE IT! The Hand rules by creating chaos all around us, but we, the Illuminati . . .” Edison paused, raising a clenched fist in the air. “We are the order! We are the light in the darkness! And we shall not be deterred!”

  Edison caught his breath. He smoothed over his ghost-white hair and straightened his suit before he sat down again. “You see, The Hand uses ridiculous ideas such as astrology to capitalize on the great mysteries of our existence. We seek not to capitalize on the mystery, but to unravel it!”

  Wage looked around again. “Well Mr. Edison . . . Thomas . . . can I call you Thomas? It certainly seems you capitalize on something around here.” Wage looked around the lab. “Science sure pays for some nice lodging.”

  “Consider a doctor. Does he not demand a reasonable fee from his patients for his services?”

  “I suppose so,” Wage replied.

  “If that doctor could help thousands of people in a year, would his compensation not be proportionally larger?

  “Ostensibly larger, I would imagine,” Wage replied with a hiccup.

  “My inventions better the entire human race, for the rest of eternity. What would you say the compensation for that is? I believe I am entitled to some just compensation, AM I NOT?”

  “Very well,” Wage said, thrusting a finger into his ear. “No reason to keep raising your voice, unless there is compensation in raising the dead.” Wage playfully hit Bill on the arm again and smiled.

  “Funny you should mention that, Mr. Pascal.” Edison smiled and turned his head. “Dickie!” The one-armed man returned. “Dickie, show them what you have been working on.” If Dickie had a right arm, he probably would have saluted. He ran toward the dead dog.

  “Say,” Wage said. “How did your man there lose his arm?”

  “X-rays,” Edison replied, staring at Dickie.

  “X-rays?” Wage repeated.

  “Do not talk to me of X-rays. I am afraid of them,” Edison said.

  Dickie checked the connections to the deceased animal and gave a thumbs up. Edison got up and walked to the other end of the lab, gesturing for Wage and Bill to follow him. When the three of them and Dickie were all gathered around the table, the demonstration began. Dickie took a few steps to his right and pulled a pair of goggles over his eyes with one hand.

  “Should we be wearing—” Wage began, but Dickie was already flipping the nearby switch.

  A static buzzing permeated the air around them. Wage’s arm and neck hair stuck straight up. Electri
city coursed through the veins of the corpse on the table. The dog’s eyelids began to flutter. Wage and Bill stepped back in horror. Dickie moved to another control and adjusted a knob.

  The tail began to wag.

  He adjusted another knob.

  The dog moved its back legs repeatedly like it was dreaming of chasing a rabbit.

  He tweaked another knob.

  The dog began to pant and moan.

  Another adjustment.

  It barked.

  Dickie side-stepped to another control panel. He checked a gauge before throwing more switches.

  The dog lurched upright. Its head and eyes were convulsing, its body twitching. It barked like it had just sensed an intruder.

  “He’s raised the goddamned dead,” Wage whispered.

  “Alternating current killed it,” Edison yelled over the loud hum of electricity and the undead barking. “But my direct current is the secret to bringing it back to life!”

  The dog began smoking, and the smell became unbearable. Wage nearly vomited. Edison signaled, and Dickie powered down whatever unholy engine had reanimated the abomination before them.

  “Imagine when we decipher the code to eternal life!” Edison said, his eyes wild with excitement.

  Wage coughed hard, and this time he did vomit onto the floor. The demonstration and the smell were enough to sober him up. “Will eternal life smell that bad?” he asked, wiping vomit from his mouth with his rolled sleeve.

  “And to think, they call you Black Vomit Bill?” Edison said, pointing at Bill. “Dickie! Clean up Mr. Pascal’s mess! You boys go get some fresh air and meet me outside the machine shop in a few minutes. There is something we need to discuss.”

  Wage and Ol’ Bill walked past the recently re-deceased dog, down the stairs, past the never-living automaton, and outside to absorb the sunshine and fresh air. They stood in a small courtyard beside the machine shop, Wage instantly sobered by what he saw and smelled. His head now throbbed.

  “William,” Wage said, leaning on his comrade. “I do believe we have met either the Lord himself or the Devil in flesh. And I ain’t feelin’ any more holy.”

  Edison walked out of the lab building and approached them with an uneven stride. An employee in a lab coat followed behind him, burdened with two suitcases. Edison handed Wage an envelope. “A high-ranking operative of The Hand has disappeared recently. We believe he was their Architect here in America.”

  “Architect?” Wage asked.

  “Not in the traditional sense. Architects comprise one of the innermost circles of The Hand. Very powerful people, Mr. Pascal; you may liken them to a general. They are the grandest of puppet masters and take their orders directly from The Council itself.”

  “Now, who the hell is The Council?” Wage asked.

  “They are the legacy of our race’s first leaders. They are the puppet masters of the puppet masters.”

  “So—” Wage began.

  “So!” Bill interrupted. “What would you like from us?”

  “I want you to find out who took him, where he went, and why he disappeared,” Edison said.

  “How much does it pay?” Wage asked.

  “More than enough,” Edison snapped.

  “I’m afraid I am going to need a more quantifiable number,” Wage said, still wiping traces of vomit from his beard.

  “Fifty thousand,” Edison answered. “All the information I have is in the letter I gave you, along with some modest funds to get the operation started.” The man in the lab coat finally dropped his suitcases and breathed a sigh of relief. “These cases contain our means of communication. Simply connect the battery in this case to the repligrapher in this one. Then, write a message to me. Your pen strokes will be mimicked by a similar machine I have here in the shop, and vice versa. When you determine the location of this Architect and I confirm it, I will authorize half the payment into an account in your name at Morgan, Grenfell & Company in Manhattan. And before you ask why only half, there is something else you must do before full payment.”

  “And,” Bill cleared his throat, “what would be that other something be, sir?”

  “Find Kasper Holstrom, then we’ll talk,” Edison answered.

  “Now, William, I am sure it ain’t nothing we can’t handle,” Wage said. He knew with that kind of money and a slightly more modest living, he would have no use for his father’s trust fund. “You have yourself a deal!” Wage said as he offered a hearty handshake. Edison shook his hand, and then Ol’ Bill’s.

  “There is train that leaves this evening for Fort Wayne, Indiana; from there you should be able to find your way to Battle Creek. Keep me abreast of your whereabouts with the repligrapher. You can expect an expeditious reply every time you write.”

  “Why Battle Creek?” Wage asked.

  “The sanitarium there was the last place we had eyes on Kasper Holstrom.”

  “The sanitarium?” Wage asked. “You want us to go to a health resort?”

  “This is not your ordinary resort, Mr. Pascal,” Edison warned.

  “Just one question then, Mr. Edison—why send us? Me and Ol’ Bill? If you are such a powerful organization, why not send one of your own men?”

  “How many scientists have you met, Mr. Pascal? How many of my scientists do you think have the skill sets to do what it is you do? We wield wrenches, not rifles. We create the gunpowder and engineer the rifles, but never pull the trigger. We leave that filthy business to brutes like you and your friend. ”

  “Fair enough, sir. You will not regret our employment. We will find your Architect!”

  Edison’s gaze pierced them. “This is no trivial matter. These people, The Hand, they are dangerous. More dangerous than you can imagine, and they know who you are and, eventually, they will find you. Do exercise caution.”

  “Well if they aim to kill me, they will have to get in line. This ain’t nothing’ Ol’ Bill and I can’t handle, I assure you,” Wage said confidently. He casually saluted the gruff scientist and adjusted his six-shooter. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”

  Wage and Bill returned to Main Street carrying their new luggage. When Edison was out of earshot, Ol’ Bill asked, “What do you suppose he means to do with this Kasper fella when we find him?”

  “Whatever it is, it’ll be worth $25,000.”

  “Still . . .” Bill continued.

  Wage stopped. “You heard the man, William; they won’t pull a trigger. My guess is . . . we will.”

  John Hum

  August 9, 1914

  5th Street Station House

  Winston-Salem, North Carolina

  John Hum stepped from the train to the wooden platform. Every other plank creaked as he strode across it, giving him the eerie feeling that he might fall right through at any moment. He wore his old black jacket and pants, both now tattered, and despite Sister Silvia’s best effort, a close inspection would still reveal numerous dirt and blood stains. The Sisters of Charity did, however, provide him with a few white shirts and collars, courtesy of some of the less fortunate patients at the hospital who had no more use for them. On this balmy day, however, he forwent the collar. On the train ride up, a passenger had left a black Homburg hat behind in his seat. When it became clear that the passenger would not be back to retrieve it, John took it as his own. It was a different shade of black than his clothes, but it sufficed, and the dyed red goose feather attached to the hatband even added a little more character. But he still felt somewhat out of place as the colorfully dressed ladies of Winston-Salem popped open their silk umbrellas in the morning sun.

  Sister Silvia herself took up a collection to send John to North Carolina, convinced that the nude woman in the picture could provide him with his lost memories. Secretly, she hoped the beautiful woman was a pining fiancée praying every moment of every day for her husband-to-be’s safe return. After all the donations by hospital staff, patients, and passersby in the street, Sister Silvia sent John away with a clean-shaven face and as
many prayers as she could muster in their final week together. John Hum left New Orleans with the clothes on his back and a small canvas bag filled with freshly washed shirts. He had enough money to get Winston-Salem while eating one modest meal a day.

  Blonde stubble now covered his face, and he was starving. The only thing he coveted more than finding the woman in the drawing was devouring a very large lunch. His gluttonous appetite momentarily subsided, however, when he heard shouts and screams coming from just outside the station. Standing atop a wooden crate in the street, an older man with stringy coal hair leaking out of a worn grey top hat pointed and yelled at the passing people. His grey suit made John’s seem brand new. When John approached him, the soapbox preacher’s eyes lit up as though his hollow skull had two lit candles within.

  “You there, brother!” he screamed, showing jagged yellow teeth.

  Something stirred within John, and he felt an almost magnetic attraction to the curbside evangelist. John stopped just short of the towering man and looked up.

  The overzealous preacher had the habit of intermittently and unexpectedly raising his voice. The Tourette-like tactic was most likely meant as an attention-getter, or as way to wake up dozing members of his former congregation. “If you plan on doing the DEVIL’s work here in Winston-Salem, you’d best be going back from whence you came! REPENT, sinner! For temperance and humility have FINALLY come to our fair city! No longer will we ACCEPT the malevolent deeds done by forsaken sinners. We are the City on the Hill, we are the seat of GOD’S righteousness! So tell me, SON, what has brought ye here?”

  John immediately thought about the drawing in his inner pocket. Carefully he took it out and folded it deftly with his one good hand so as only to reveal just the face of beauty, not her full form. “I am looking for this woman. Have you seen her?” he asked, holding up the picture.

  The preacher’s eyes widened at the site of her. “Harlot!” he cried. “YOU will not find Satan’s brides amongst our modest women! If you ARE looking for women of such ILL repute, take thee back to Sodom! Take the afternoon train to Gomorra!”