Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (19 page)

Random men, some in suits, a few in overalls, and even more in lab coats, toiled about writing, sketching, tinkering, and tweaking, creating a symphony of science; a symphony whose tempo sped up as Edison walked near the orchestra’s numerous players.  Edison was not interested in being the conductor, however.  He proceeded to his desk at the far end of the lab like he was more of a monarch parading past his scientific subjects. 

Wage and Bill sat in uncomfortable wooden chairs in front of Edison’s throne and his red oak desk.  Their chairs creaked loudly with the slightest movement.  Edison leaned over his desk, clasped his hands and stared at the two of them. Wage noticed the revered scientist’s labored breathing and the sweat pooling under both his arms and on his massively rectangular forehead.  “Now, you boys tell me when last you saw Monomi,” he said.

Wage went to speak, but Ol’ Bill interrupted him. “We don’t know no Monomi, sir.  We came by your name by an old Chinaman down in New Orleans named Mr. Jade.”  Wage let his former 1
st
Sergeant take charge for the moment.  Wage knew that anytime Bill stepped in, it was probably an attempt to keep his former captain out of avoidable danger.  Wage crossed his arms; the chair creaked as he leaned back.

“Is that the name he’s going by now?  Boy can’t keep a name for more than week it seems.  Well I guess it’s better than Black Vomit Bill now, isn’t it?”

Bill cleared his throat.  “Yes, sir.  He was the old fella who hired us to steal a stone off a man named Hamilton in Winston-Salem.”

“I see.  And he thought I could use men of your talents?” Edison asked.

“That’s correct, sir.  He wrote your name down on a scrap o’ paper, the one I gave you.”

“Yes, Monomi has been in our employ for a while now, so it seems
you
have actually been in our employ for a while,” Edison said.

“Uh, I hate to concern anyone,” Wage interrupted, holding up a solitary forefinger. “But this stone was, in fact, sewn to a man’s chest.  Whoever the hell these people are, they sew rocks . . .  to their chests.  Rocks. 
Stones
.  To their
chests
!”  Wage pointed to his own chest.

“Yes, that means he was a disciple, the lowest member of their organization, typically recruited for their abilities and know-how” Edison replied.  “Once they discover it’s missing, they will kill him.  It is only a matter of time.  We don’t often kill the lower ranks for this reason; it keeps our slate clean and out of the public eye. Plus, it leaves more work for The Hand to mop up.  Midlevel members are eliminated in such a fashion that it looks like an accident.  And top level members, well, our official policy is to trail them—understand them and their methods.  Once enough intelligence is accumulated then we neutralize them.  Of course, we have yet to ever neutralize one.” 

Ol’ Bill began to speak, but Wage interrupted again. “On that note, who the hell is ‘they,’ and on a similar note, who the hell is your ‘we’?”

Edison took a deep breath.  “All right, Captain Pascal . . . by the way, what exactly are you captain of?”

“Well, I . . . we . . . once rode with—”

“Once?  So you don’t command now?” Edison asked.

“Well, no, but . . .”

“All right
Mister
Pascal, I will make this as brief as a can.”

“Can we be brief over a drink?” Wage asked.

“Dickie!” Edison called loudly. A gentleman with curly black hair and a handlebar mustache and dressed in a lab coat ran up and stood at near attention.  The right sleeve of his lab coat was pinned up.  He was missing an arm.  “Give our guests some of our finest.”

“Now that’s more like it.  Much obliged Mr. Edison,” Wage said as he took off his slouch hat and placed it in his lap.  Seconds later, Dickie reappeared with two tumblers filled with a clear liquid carefully balanced in his only hand.  Wage grabbed one, took a hearty sip, and coughed uncontrollably.  “What in the hell is this?”  He coughed again.  “Tastes like moonshine distilled out the devil’s own ass.”  Ol’ Bill placed his tumbler on the desk without taking a sip.

“It’s our
own
brand of moonshine, Mr. Pascal, highly concentrated ethanol with a touch of capsicin, and some other . . . proprietary ingredients.  It is the most effective at inducing inebriation.  We use it as an anesthetic.”  Wage nodded and took another hearty sip. 

“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.  Electricity 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.