Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

Wage nodded. “A keen observation.”

  “For a man, maybe.”

  “Any idea what their meeting is about?” Wage asked.

  “No. They don’t tell me much. They have sort of their own little Men’s Club.” She took a larger sip of her drink. “But like I said, I would steer clear.”

  “Do you know when the Baron might be departing? Or where he would be headed if he does?”

  “I really couldn’t tell you. I am, however, fairly certain that he will be staying long enough for my engagement party.”

  “Engagement party?”

  “Only the grandest celebration in town. We’ve rented out Carnegie Hall. Everyone who is anyone will be there, so I am assuming a Baron wouldn’t miss it. You should come too, Wage.”

  Wage stiffened and reached behind his coat, placing a hand on Ol’ Snapper. Ol’ Bill reached into his inner coat pocket for his billy club. “I never told you my name. But let’s start with yours. Who the hell are you, lady?” Wage demanded.

  “Why so jumpy? You really should relax now,” she said with a Cajun accent.

  “I ain’t in the mood to play no games. Tell me who you are!” Wage cocked the hammer behind his back.

  “You really don’t remember me, do you?” She swept her blonde locks to one side. She took a final sultry sip of her Manhattan. “That’s too bad. I always pictured you sneaking to my window late at night,” she said. She leaned forward, almost nibbling his ear, “Whispering how it was me you were truly in love with. But that dream faded.” She leaned back and placed her empty glass on the bar. “As a matter of fact, I remember the night it faded. I was only about nine. I snuck into papa’s barn one evening and found you and my sister making love on the haystacks. I couldn’t tell you if it was her first time or not, but it didn’t look like yours.” She smiled. “You were quite the tender lover, Wage Pascal.”

  “It’s time to leave, William. Now.” Wage got up and started for the door. “It was good seeing you again, Andromeda.”

  “Your bill, sir!” the bartender yelled from a ways down the bar.

  “Put it on my tab,” Wage yelled back over his shoulder. “Room 402.”

  “Oh come on, Wage. I was only kidding. Come on back and let’s do some catchin’ up.”

  Ol’ Bill blushed, placed his flat cap back on his head, and tipped it before hurrying to catch up to his partner.

  When the two had left, she called over to the bartender once more. “Phil. Be a darling, and make me one more. Put it on room 402, as well.”

  Detective Simon Hum

  August 14, 1914

  Houston Street Lab of Nikola Tesla

  New York, New York

  “I was told to . . .” the detective fumbled for the slip of paper. He finally unfurled the crumbled paper and tried to read from it. The near 7-foot tall Slav reached over and plucked it from his grasp. He read it.

  “Yes. These are valid credentials,” the scientist replied in a strangely soft voice.

  “How did you know?” Simon asked.

  “Because you can’t fake a language that the general public knows nothing about.”

  “What language is it?”

  “Sumerian.”

  “Sumerian?”

  “Exactly,” Tesla said. “It appears you are the one Doctor Mamba sent. My name is Nikola Tesla.”

  “My name is Simon. Simon Hum—currently, anyway.” Tesla regarded him stoically. “And this is my . . . associate, Amber Rose.”

  Tesla folded the slip of paper quickly and as meticulously as an origami practitioner, and he placed the new, perfectly symmetrical square back in the detective’s breast pocket. Then he held up a finger. “Please allow me one moment.” The gangly man walked across his lab in enormous strides and fetched some measuring tape, the kind a tailor might use. He walked back and took careful measurements of the detective’s arm, noting the distance between his shoulder, elbow, and wrist joints.

  “What are you doing?” Simon asked. Amber Rose peaked over his shoulder.

  “Doctor Mamba informed me that your left arm is in need of repair,” Tesla said, inspecting his arm’s mobility. “So I am repairing it.”

  “How are you going to fix his arm?” Amber Rose asked.

  “I am going to give him one of yours.”

  “What?”

  “I am kidding,” Tesla replied dryly. “It was joke.”

  Amber Rose breathed a sigh of relief and caught Simon’s eyes. Confusion set in for them both. “How exactly do you intend to repair my arm?” Simon asked.

  “With an alloyed, mobility-enhancing, joint-augmenting, exoskeletal-mounting bracket with optional projectile-propelling attachments.”

  Simon and Amber Rose looked at each other again. “And just how are you going to make one of these exoskeleton things?” the detective asked.

  “More of contraption, really, and I’ve already built it. It’s based on the prototype I used to help pigeon’s repair their broken wings.” Tesla bounded off again, grabbing a tool box from one shelf before heading to the workbench by the windows. The detective was quite sure that if he calculated it, he would determine that Tesla had taken the most direct and efficient route between the two points. Tesla lifted the dust cover off the bench and hunched over a long metal device. “It will take me 11 minutes to make the necessary adjustments and another four minutes for outfitting.”

  “You mind if we have a look around while we wait? Amber Rose asked.

  “Please, get comfortable, because you will never be allowed to leave.”

  “What!?” Amber Rose screamed.

  “I am kidding. It was joke,” Tesla replied, turning a small wrench. “Please, be my guest.”

  Simon and Amber Rose explored the laboratory. Countless metal workbenches, tools, and wired equipment lay perfectly and precisely organized. Even diagrams and papers were perfectly stacked. Entropy seemed to be a nonexistent force in this odd microcosm. Save for a few tools and machines, including a coiled electrical generator, nothing in the room was round or noticeably curved. Mechanical devices were all dust-free and evenly spaced out along the floor, some humming, others droning, and all of them clearly polished. The whole place is compulsively ordered, the detective thought. Disturbing.

  “Do you work for Doctor Mamba?” Simon yelled.

  “I am employed by his organization,” the toiling scientist replied.

  “Can you tell me anything about their organization?”

  “They are maniacal, ruthless, unsavory and generally unpleasant to be around.”

  “Then why work for them?”

  “Because they pay my bills.” Tesla now held a screwdriver in his other hand, turning it with deft fingers.

  “Do you wear a stone, too, then?”

  “No. I am not an official member.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because most people who wear the stone die wearing it,” Tesla said.

  “Is that a joke?”

  “No. You must have your suspicions. That is why you have not sewn on your own.”

  “How did you know?” Wait! The letter!

  “The letter I folded and put in your pocket. I did not feel a stone.”

  “Are you going to tell them?”

  “No.”

  “How do you get away without wearing one?” Simon asked.

  “Because they require my expertise, and those are my terms. I wish to not be formally affiliated. Besides, I am a minimal risk; I rarely leave my laboratory.”

  “Where do you sleep then?” the detective asked.

  “They provide me with a room at the Belnord Hotel. I spend exactly three hours a day there.”

  “And the rest in your lab?”

  “No. At 8:10 p.m. I have dinner at Delmonico’s. Then I return here until the early morning hours. I occasionally take walks, too. Sometimes three miles, sometimes six.”

  The detective and Amber Rose continued to wander the lab. “What exactly is your expertise?” Simon asked, staring at a table whe
re a pigeon lie motionless, with bits of metal, wires, and tubes coming from its head and chest. Its eyes darted about like it recognized the detective. The wires and tubes ran from its head and chest to a machine with small blinking lights, strangely proportioned knobs, and a small accordion that inflated and deflated rhythmically.

  “I am a scientist,” he called back. “Four minutes.”

  “What is this thing?” Amber Rose asked.

  “That is Agnes.”

  “The bird is named Agnes?”

  “She is not a bird. She is a North American pigeon. And she is my closest friend.”

  “Then why is she strapped to this machine?” Amber Rose pressed.

  “Because without it, she will die. She has progressed past her natural lifespan of eight years.”

  The detective and Amber Rose leaned in closer to examine the pigeon and machine. Its onyx eyes flicked about as if trying to communicate now. “You are keeping her alive? Why?” Simon asked.

  “Because she is my closest friend,” Tesla yelled back. “One minute.”

  “Are you able to do the same with humans? Keep them alive beyond their lifespan?”

  “Yes. Forty-nine seconds.”

  “So will the bird live forever?” Amber Rose asked.

  “Her name is Agnes. She is a North American pigeon. And given the cessation of cellular decay, in theory, yes, she would be immortal.”

  “Cellular decay?” Simon asked.

  “All organic material decays, eventually. Thirty-three seconds.”

  “Can you stop the decaying process?”

  “Yes. Twenty-nine seconds.”

  “So you have discovered immortality!” the detective shouted.

  “Like I said, in theory, yes. But practically speaking, no. Even if our bodies lived forever, the human mind is not designed for such a journey. The human mind only functions because it is constantly and keenly aware of its own demise. Death—and by extension, decay— are the only real motivators.” Tesla rose from his workbench, carrying his contraption that looked like a child’s toy. “There are many who are searching for the Fountain of Youth. The secret to an endless life. But they are wasting their time.”

  “Then why keep Agnes alive?” the detective asked.

  “Because she is my closest friend.” Tesla presented his invention like a newborn child. “It is finished. Take off your coat and shirt.” With a meticulous efficiency, Tesla anchored the exoskeletal arm to Simon’s shoulder and began strapping the metal frame to the emaciated arm, paying no attention to the scars on his back. Simon winced. Once outfitted, Tesla began making adjustments with a wrench and attached small black electrodes. At first, the contraption painfully weighed down Simon’s arm, but after a minor toggle, the pain eased. “Can you move your arm now?”

  The detective flexed his shoulder and concentrated on bending his arm. The faintest sound of gears could be heard, and his arm bent at the elbow. More quiet gears turned and he twisted his wrist around noticing a small metal bar that looked similar to the killing arm of a mouse trap. “Amazing. Simply amazing.”

  “You’ve got to be pulling my leg,” Amber Rose said.

  “I have a machine that does that, too,” Tesla replied dryly.

  “Really?”

  “No. It was joke.” He turned back to the detective. “It will take some time getting used to it. Here, put your clothes back on.

  The detective obliged. His clothes fit snuggly now, and his left arm looked bulkier, but he paid little attention. He practiced flexing the arm some more. Amber Rose put a gentle hand on his neck. “It works again, Simon,” she said.

  He walked around the lab some more, paying more attention to his arm and absentmindedly walking into a nearby table. It jostled the only machine atop it, which was about a foot tall. It was a miniature piston made of concentric cylinders a bit wider than a pencil. The cylinders were surrounded by a small wooden scaffold, and a small wire, perfectly straight, connected the small machine to a battery and switch.

  “Sorry,” Simon said, steadying the machine.

  “What exactly does this do?” Amber Rose asked.

  “I wouldn’t—,” Tesla said.

  But without listening, Amber Rose flipped the switch on the little machine. It whizzed, and the piston began churning up and down. The pitch was low at first as the piston slowly moved. Then the pitch increased as the piston moved faster, hitting a bottom platform with finger-crushing force. The table began oscillating, shaking subtly at first, then violently. Other tables started to shake. Amber Rose and Simon backed up instinctively as their teeth began to rattle in their skulls. Now windows were shaking and the table the machine sat on fell apart, all four legs splaying out and the top crashing down. The battery disconnected from the machine as it fell and the shaking finally stopped.

  Tesla loomed over them as they looked at the wreckage. “Does that answer your question?” he asked. He didn’t seem upset at the destruction.

  “What in the hell was that?” Amber Rose asked.

  “Amplified destructive resonance through simple mechanical oscillation.”

  “I don’t understand,” Simon said.

  “Every object possesses a natural resonant frequency, a frequency that, if determined, can produce extreme vibrations within said object.”

  “But that little machine damn near shook this whole place,” Amber Rose said.

  “Yes, and had it progressed, it would have shaken the entire building apart.”

  “What would a bigger one do?” the detective asked.

  “The earth itself has a resonant frequency. A bigger machine would shake the earth apart.”

  “The earth?” Amber Rose asked.

  “Like an earthquake,” Simon added.

  “Yes,” Tesla replied. “Like the one in San Francisco.”

  “I saw pictures of that in the papers!” Amber Rose exclaimed.

  “The earthquake in San Francisco? Yes, yes,” the detective said, on the cusp of remembering.

  “In 1906, the largest ever recorded,” Tesla said.

  “You can create an earthquake that big?” Amber Rose asked.

  “Technically, I did. They used my machine in an attempt to open a gold vein outside Oakland; unfortunately, it was powerful enough to cause slippage in the fault line, triggering an earthquake.”

  “They?” Simon asked.

  “Doctor Mamba’s employer.”

  “Yes, I still haven’t quite figured out who they are,” Simon replied.

  “Allow me to be of service then,” came a voice from the lab entrance. Three men strode through the wide metal doors like entropy’s agents finally infiltrating the harmonious lab. The lead one was muscular, bald and wearing glasses with one lens blacked out. Behind him were a Middle Eastern-looking man, well dressed with a golden tooth, and smaller man with a bowler hat, bushy sideburns, and a servant’s disposition.

  “Ah, Baron DeLacy,” Tesla said. “Welcome. It was so nice of you to knock.”

  “Good morning, Nikola,” the Baron said, drawing his Luger Parabellum and aiming it at Simon’s stomach. “Care to introduce me to your friends?”

  Khalid Francois drew his revolver also and aimed it at Amber Rose. He winked at her and blew her a kiss. “Pig,” she cursed under her breath.

  Tesla raised his arms in a placating gesture. His wingspan was enormous. “Gentlemen, please. No violence in my laboratory!”

  The detective’s arm whizzed and whirled to life, generating unusual noises as he lifted it up. His shirt and coat sleeves ripped in half as a spring-loaded barrel unfolded out of it, a cylinder clicked into place and a bullet went off into the ceiling.

  “No, wait,” Tesla said and stepped between the parties, holding the firing end of Simon’s arm. “He is not used to it,” he reassured his new guests.

  The Baron took a moment to survey the situation. Finally, he put his pistol away and instructed Khalid to do the same. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Tesla interrupted
. “They were sent by Doctor Mamba. New Disciples. I have their orders, here.” Tesla pinched a part of the detective’s arm, causing the barrel to fold back into his ripped sleeves. Then, he reached into the detective’s breast pocket and pulled out the perfectly folded slip of paper. He handed it to the Baron, who inspected it.

  “Why is The Witchdoctor employing Disciples? He’s been retired for years.”

  “He has not told me,” Tesla said.

  “He has employed us to find a man named Wage Pascal,” the detective announced.

  “Wage Pascal?”

  “I suffered a terrible accident as a result of him,” Simon went on. “Lost my memories and the use of my arm.” He raised his bionic arm slightly. “Until now, that is.”

  “Why you? And why you?” the Baron said, pointing to Amber Rose.

  “In my former life, apparently I was a detective. Doctor Mamba believes those skills were not lost with my current condition, and he has agreed to grant me my memories should I find this Wage Pascal.”

  “And you?” he asked Amber Rose.

  “I know what Wage Pascal looks like. I know a little something about his . . . habits. He was a … client of mine.” Khalid winked again. “Pig,” she repeated.

  “Miss Amber Rose and I are partners,” Simon said.

  “A detective and a whore, I presume” the Baron said. “Well, I just received a report that Wage Pascal was on a train headed east from Youngstown, where he killed two Disciples. I suggest you start there. Report everything to me and me alone. Do not under any circumstances approach him. He is proving to be quite dangerous. And under no condition do I want you talking to Mamba. He is not to be trusted. Do you understand? Never trust a poisoner.” The Baron’s mouth curved slightly upward.

  “Yes,” they both replied.

  “You work for me now. You can find me at the Waldorf Astoria. Seventeenth-floor suite. You fail me, and I will kill you myself. Now run along.”

  The detective thanked Tesla before grabbing Amber Rose’s hand with his new arm and leading her out the door.

  When they left, the Baron turned back to Tesla. “Any news from The Council?”

  “They await your report,” Tesla replied. “They should have received their new visual platform by now, similar to the one I sent to you. We can access it at Wardenclyffe. Come, I will take you; let me just gather a few things.”