Einstein Must Die! (Fate of Nations Book 1) (15 page)

Edison had good reason to fear the new technology. Using a smaller scope than the brothers currently worked with, he had exposed his left eye to the rays, and come away with that eye considerably out of focus. An optometrist told him the damage put his eye twelve inches out of focus, and he couldn’t say if the change was permanent or not. He shied away from the technology after that, but the Dally brothers were adamant the work was worth the risk.

“Just be careful, please,” said Edison. “Frontiersmen often died young, you know.”
 

Dally waved his hand at his mentor. He did love to worry.

A VEXING CHALLENGE

Tesla and Colonel Browning watched as Bertram scratched a long formula on the blackboard. Before he’d finished, Tesla leaped up.

“No, no!” he said, snatching the chalk from the R&D chief’s hand. “The squashing function of the output values must be done this way.” He found a clean section of board and whipped out a differing formula for the math needed.

“Ah yes,” said Bertram. “I see that now. A very useful methodology.”

Shooting pain ran from the colonel’s chest down to his thigh, and he winced silently. He leaned against the table for support, careful to not let the others notice.

“Useful, but not sufficient,” said Tesla, tossing aside the chalk. He banged his palm down on a worktable, startling three nearby technicians.

“Easy, son,” said the colonel. “We’ll get there.”

Tesla had been working in the lab for a week, enjoying the resources available to him, but still no closer to a solution than when he’d begun. He had a staff of eighteen researchers, access to Hollerith’s computer research, and the freedom to explore any line of thought he considered worthwhile. So far none of it had mattered. The colonel’s presence reminded him just how much was at stake. And how little time remained.

Seven days of failure. The hulking mass of the Beowulf tank still sat quiet, awaiting Tesla’s work to bear fruit. He turned and looked up at the steel war machine. Without a human mind to drive it, the beast was inert, a sixty-ton pile of organized steel, coal, bullets, and wiring.
 

Beowulf had a comfortably sized crew compartment and could carry a half-dozen men within it, but this compartment had been built for observers or special operations, not general usage. No human crew could operate at the speed needed to fulfill Beowulf’s potential. There were too many weapon systems and variables involved for a disjointed crew to handle effectively. The machine had been designed to be controlled by a single brain, one that could compute strategy and tactics at lightning speed.

In front of Beowulf, a set of massive steel doors reached the lab’s ceiling. They were just wide and tall enough to allow the tank to drive through, and they opened to a long concrete corridor, built especially to let the tank leave the Rabbit Hole.
 

The lab was dug into the side of a large hillside, and down here at their bottom level, the corridor extended out to the base of the hill. There, another set of huge blast doors protected the lab, capable of stopping anything, up to and including a radiological bomb.

Tesla glanced at the massive steel doors, hoping he’d get to see them open.

“What about the other side of the problem?” Bertram asked.

“You mean reading the impulses from the colonel’s brain?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“I spent a few days on that, when I was making no progress here.” He pointed to a far table with an assortment of gear strewn on it. “I believe I have that side of the problem solved. Measuring such minute electrical signals was tricky, but much easier than this.”

“I fear I’m not being of much help to you Nikola,” said Bertram. His glasses were sliding down his nose, and he pressed them back up.
 

“The fault isn’t yours. I appreciate the attempt.”
 

Tesla surveyed the board, then swept his eyes over the worktables. His prototype brain had been expanded and pushed to its limit, in order to better understand the potential of his network of relays. The device had turned out to be capable of recognizing forty-eight items, after some additional improvements had been made. The training cycle for each object had been reduced from several minutes down to seven seconds.
 

A mechanical brain that learned so quickly would have been a marvel and cause for celebration, but compared to Tesla’s true goal, it fell short by a laughable margin.
 

Madelaine approached and hopped onto a tall work stool beside Bertram. He tousled her hair, which she hated, but put up with.

Bertram knew he had nothing more to offer and decided to take his leave. He collected his clipboard and pile of books. “I will leave you to it then,” he said.

As he left, Madelaine looked up at him. “Can we continue our chess lessons tonight?” she asked.

Bertram smiled. “Absolutely. Tonight, we discuss the Knight and his cunning reach.”

“Cool,” she said.

Tesla waved good-bye. “Thank you.”

Bertram returned the wave and headed off, wondering if the mess hall was still open.

Madelaine sat quietly, spinning herself on the stool.

The motion drew Tesla’s attention. “Shouldn’t you be in school, young miss?”

“It’s Sunday, Mr. Tesla,” she said.

“Oh. Is it?”

“For the whole day.”

He smiled, glancing at the colonel and saw his knowing smile.
Precocious, indeed
.

She looked like a smaller version of her mother, he thought. In a few years, when boys became interesting, her mother would have one more thing to worry about.

“Are you close to fixing it?” she asked.

“I am not, sadly.”

“What’s the problem?”

How to explain such a thing to a child? He thought for a moment. “There’s just too much complexity in a human brain to fit within any device I know how to build.”

She looked at his prototype. “That’s a lot bigger than someone’s head.”

He laughed. “If only it were that simple.”

“Hmm,” she said, then turned to Beowulf. “They should paint it red and black. My favorite colors are red and black.”

“That would be something,” he agreed. “Like American Indian war paint.”

“Yeah!” she cried. “My Mom said Beowulf was a warrior, a long time ago.”

Tesla nodded. “From a very old poem. He saved his village by slaying the monster Grendel.”

“So the British are our Grendel?”

“An apt analogy, yes.”

“Why do they want to fight us?” she asked.

Tesla looked to the colonel, but he shook his head. “Let’s hear your estimation, Nikola.”

“Like most wars, I imagine it’s over resources. The oil in Texas, and now the gold being found in Alaska. We have a lot of things other countries want.”

“Don’t they have their own?”

“Not enough, I suppose.”

She thought about that for a moment. “At school Rebecca had a chocolate bar I wanted. When she wasn’t looking, I took a bite. A big one.”

Tesla studied the young girl intensely. “Then you are a wicked, wicked girl.”

“Am not!” she cried. “Take that back!”

“Yes,” the colonel jumped in, straight-faced. “A wicked, warmongering little girl.” He nodded in solemn agreement.

“It was just a bite, Mr. Tesla.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “A big one, you said. This is how such things begin.”

She scrunched up her face, fairly sure they were teasing her now.

“In fact,” he continued, “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear of armed conflict down at Fernwood Middle School any day now.”

She perched on the stool, arms folded over her chest, pouting. “You’re mean.”

“At times,” he agreed, then returned to his work.

FUN AND GAMES

A POOR LIAR, BUT A BRAVE ONE

NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT

Young Paul Harris had been inside the city hall once before, when his father sought permission to expand his grazing pasture, but on that day, he didn’t wonder if he was about to die.

Two Redcoats pushed him forward into the mayor’s office. He tripped over the rug, but caught himself before falling. He didn’t want to give them anything to feel smug about.
 

He looked up to see a highly decorated British officer behind the mayor’s desk, reviewing papers. The officer smiled without looking up, then continued focusing on the reports of confiscations his men had made.

Paul stood tall and shrugged off the restraining hand on his shoulder. He wished he had something sassy to say, but nothing came to mind.

At length the officer made some notes on the reports and set them aside. He stood and walked around the desk, facing the young man. Paul met his gaze, and a mutual dislike was instantly formed.

“I’m Major Archibald Thomas,” said the officer. “I’ve brought you here because the city records indicate your father was stationed in New York, at Fort Hamilton, six months ago. Is that accurate?”

Paul wondered what the major was after. Sure, he knew the general layout of the base, but he certainly didn’t know any military secrets. He began to tell the major to ask his father, if he wanted to know so badly.
 

But then he remembered his father was dead, killed in the attack on the city. Even after a week, he couldn’t believe his father was gone. Unless he walked by the West Gate, where his father’s body still hung.

“My father was stationed there,” he said, holding back a tear. “What about it?”

“There was a Colonel Browning there? Second-in-command?”

That was public knowledge. “Yeah.”

The major leaned forward now, his dark eyes open wide, taking in everything Paul said or didn’t say.

“And his daughter? Savannah?”

Paul’s breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t a military secret, or anything like that, but it was so unexpected. He remembered the kind, beautiful blonde and her little girl. What was her name? It was a cookie of some sort. Florentine? Rosette? Madelaine! That was it.

“Haven’t heard of her,” he said.

The major’s mouth stretched wide, turning up into the grin of a jackal watching the antelope fall. “So she
is
there!” He ran his hand over his chin. “Outstanding…”
 

He stood lost in thought for a moment, already imagining Savannah brought before him, then turned back to Paul.

“You Americans are no better at telling a lie than you are at telling the truth.”
 

The major thought about what to do with the boy. He was young, strong, and brave. Three traits not desired in an enemy. And the years after Savannah had hardened the major beyond mercy.

He looked at the Redcoats. “Hang him with his father.”

HELPFUL APPARITION