Yazoo, Mississippi 1914-v2
Mercury Cotton Plantation, 2:15pm
- For Justice and Truth
It was a particularly hot day in Mississippi. So hot in fact, even the birds weren’t wanting to sing their songs for the workers working out in the fields. It had also been a very productive year in cotton, so paw gave the workers the day off to just relax, take a swim in the pond, and not die of heat stroke. Paw was in town for most of that day, so it was just me and Amelia with the house to ourselves. She’d be in the kitchen cleaning up after lunch.
I was perusing through old books that my father kept in our library. I had read most of them by this point, especially the books regarding pirates and buried treasure. Never needed to read them more than once. Once I had read them, I could just reread them in my head.
I was thumbing through the books on the shelves trying to find something I hadn’t read. The leather on the books were mostly worn from years of opening and closing, but they still kept that smell you couldn’t get from a paperback book. Some dust in certain parts of the library swirled up in the sun rays as I pulled books out to consider if they were going to be of particular interest that day. I searched through sixty-five books before I came to a halt, my eyes widening with wonder.
In the back corner of the library, at the very bottom corner where the most dust had collected, I found a leather-bound book titled Diary. It was my grandfather’s diary. There were a lot of things my paw and I talked about day-to-day, but we never spoke in too much detail about my grandfather Maximus Jones.
I pulled the book out and wiped the layer of dust off the front of it. The embossed letters on the front still looked crisp and clean, despite the dust, but there was some obvious wear from the passage of time. I bent the book to and fro to stretch the leather before opening it. I let the pages fan past my eyes—line after line of masterful writing—before starting on page one.
My grandfather had started writing in this diary around the start of The War Between the States. He detailed his experiences from the time he started out as a Major to his final officer position as Brigadier General. He spoke of the comradery he had with some of his troops, some of the more reluctant soldiers to make his acquaintance, and even some who almost refused to take orders. Those journal entries tended to detail the punishment issued for those particular men. Thankfully for the CSA, they were few and far between.
I spent the next couple hours reading through grandfather Maximus’s diary. I had posted up on the arm chair in the library, most slouched down at this point, legs over the side of one arm while my back rested against the other. My eyes were glued to the pages as I relived the parts of my grandfather’s life that he had chosen to document.
One of the last journal entries my grandfather had before the end of this diary was of particular fascination to my 14-year-old eyes and brain. Having read so much about pirates and buried treasure, and being such a nerd about weapons, my interest was piqued.
March 15, 1864. New Sword.
We’ve gotten word that General Sherman is going to make his move on Atlanta in a few short months. Detailed plans of his attack have been made preview to us, so our plans for counter attack are in full swing. We’ll be ready. Those yankee doodles won’t know what hit them.
As I was sitting in my quarters looking over plans, a private knocked on the wooden post at the entrance of my tent, parcel in hand. The parcel, it turned out, was a new sword. It was a beautiful piece of art. From the golden weaves of vines through the tang, intricate and interlaced roses, to the cherry wood handle and sapphire pommel. This sword looks like it was made for a Jones. A letter was attached from my wife saying ‘I love you, Maximus. Let this be what brings you home safe. Love, Esmerelda.’ Of particular style and touch, the words ‘For Justice and Truth the Courageous Stand’ were etched at the base of the blade. For this to be a gift from my dear Esmerelda says more about her love for me than anything could. Even holding that damned thing, I can feel a thrum of power that I hadn’t felt with any other weapon. Truly, this is a great gift.
I closed the diary with a slow, thoughtful gesture, now holding it between both hands like I was praying with it. I replaced the book—its contents now etched into my memory forever—and headed for the living room. Father was just walking back into the house, a warm, but tired expression of greeting on his face as he saw me round the corner. “Junior! How good it is to see you, son! How has your afternoon been? Hold on, let me get settled and you can tell me all about it.”
Amelia came into the living room with a cold glass of her lemonade and handed it to paw. Thanked her graciously as he took it, and sat in his favorite chair with a tired hmph, took a big swig, and laid his head back for a few moments before succumbing to a nap.
Chicago Prime, 1931-v2
Erlenmeyer Chemicals
7:32am
2. Mystery Chemical
I sped down Milky Way before taking a right on 50th Ave. The engine roared at each acceleration, only to be slowed either by jaywalking pedestrians or poorly timed traffic lights. I pulled up to a building that had a neon sign flashing above it in green letters Erlenmeyer Chemicals.
I pulled the car around the back of the building, keeping it out of plain sight. I got out of my car, peeking left and right to see if Rodriguez or any of his lackeys were following me. It seemed like everyone was following me these days. No one was. The coast was clear. I went in the back door.
The prominent smell of formaldehyde, thioacetone, and sulfuric acid hit my nose like a freight train. Secondary olfactory undertones included hints of methane, hydrogen bromide, and hydrogen peroxide. If my nose could do somersaults, there would have been an olympic floor routine occurring on my face.
The room I walked into from the back door was dimly lit, save for some warm fluorescent lights, some bioluminescent chemicals scattered around the room, and a free burning bunsen burner. I scanned the room quickly, taking in the sights and sounds of bubbling chemical brews popping their oxidized components, centrifuges whirring, and—for some reason—a tesla coil sparking every few seconds or so. Standing between a free standing table full of flasks, beakers, and ampules of various liquids, agents, and reagents, bunsen burners, magnetic stirrers, hot plates, and hot gloves, and a table that sat flush against the wall was my long-time friend, Anton Von Erlenmeyer.
He had his back to me, clearly engrossed in whatever work he was doing at the present moment. He was murmuring to himself, but I couldn’t quite make out anything he was saying with any clarity. I stepped into the room, clearing my throat. His head shot up, looking straight ahead. Then, as if he were standing on a lazy susan, he rotated his body and faced me.
His eyes were massive behind the goggles he had donned, his hair was wiry and black as darkest midnight, and he was wearing a smile on his face that could brighten even the darkest of days. His eyebrows were bushier than even the best of mustaches I’d seen in my life, but he sported no facial hair of his own—probably because he kept accidentally burning it off.
“Mercury! Mein freund! Velcome to ze lab!” His accent was thick and his voice was right between his nose and throat, like he was speaking with a kazoo, “vat brings you to ziss mein humble vorkshop?”
“Just business, Anton. Unfortunately, this is no social call,” I replied regretfully. I thought about lighting a cigarette for a nanosecond, to savor the moment, but then the potential danger of any of the various chemicals scattered throughout the workshop reacting with the cigarette smoke quickly pumped the brakes on that idea. I met Anton my second year in Chicago Prime at a mortuary. He was embalming a suspect I was trying to investigate. I believed they had swallowed a key piece of evidence before they died, but the coroner refused autopsy. Thankfully, Anton did not. Needless to say, the case was solved.
His eyes blinked through his goggles, his smile never wavering. “Nonsense, mein dear Freund! Anytime you visit, I feel as though my social battery fills to ze brim!” He placed his goggles up on his head, his brown eyes scanning me for anything I might have in my hand, or any possible printings in my jacket pocket of samples I might be bringing him.
“It seems you have something you’d like me to examine, nein?” He raised a bushy eyebrow at me, his smile showing eagerness and—somehow—more excitement.
“I swear, Anton, you could moonlight as a detective. Or maybe some kind of police dog,” I said only half-jokingly.
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the mystery vial of red fluid. I held it up in front of me between my thumb, index, and middle fingers. Anton’s eyes widened in curiosity. He slowly reached out as if to take it, looked at me with an expression seeking approval, and gently removed it from my grasp, looking at it with a close eye.
Then he tossed it up in the air like it was a tennis ball.
My eyes widened like I just watched him light the fuse on a stick of dynamite. He caught it and gave it another stare, and started laughing maniacally.
“Anton! What’re you doing? That could be explosive!” I said in alarm.
He laughed, “Oh really? NOW you’re vorried about it being explosive, even zo you drove it here in zat howvitzer round you call ein car? Mein dear Mercury, if ziss vas explosive or volatile in any way, you’d have been consumed in a burning ball of fire before you made it to 50th Ave.”
I pursed my lips and narrowed my eyes. He was right. I had been carrying a mystery chemical around with me without even considering beforehand that it could’ve been volatile. I suppose Mary Grace had carried it to me and was ok, so I didn’t even think twice about it. But, she also didn’t drive in White Lightning with it.
“Well, at first glance, can you tell me what it is? I already opened it and smelled it…” I began. Anton shot me a crazed look, like I had just told him I literally attempted to catch lightning in a bottle. “Oh, you’re verrükt just like me! You didn’t know it vasn’t toxic, but your curious mind couldn’t help itself!”
I paused before continuing. I really hadn’t been too careful with a vial of mystery fluid that a crazed serial killer had gifted me after kidnapping a girl I had met. I was slipping. “...it smells like jasmine and ginger.”
“Curious,” Anton said, his eyes fixated on the vial before looking at me with a serious expression, “perhaps next time you could try cooking viss it! Asian food for everyone!” He laughed another maniacal laugh before slapping me on the shoulder.
“Can you tell me what it is or not?” I said, losing my patience. Anton was a good friend, but I could hear the clock ticking time away like a ceiling fan.
“Oh, Mercury, I’m only auf den Arm nehmen. Of course I can tell you vhat it is. Is ziss ze only sample you have?” He asked with a serious tone, but his smile never faltered.
“Yeah, that's all I got.”
“Vell, I’ve certainly vorked viss less. It’ll take about ein tag for me to properly break ziss down und find a complete match,” he held up a thumb on his hand nearest me to indicate one day. Europeans, I tell ya.
Anton placed the vial on top of the middle table with the other lab supplies and began rummaging through his cabinets to find other tools to help with his analysis. He straightened back out with an arm full of supplies and began telling me what he was going to do while organizing his workspace for testing, “Firstly, I vill take little droplets of ze serum you’ve given me and test it against some common agents to test vezzer or not ziss is poison. I’m assuming you suspect ziss might be poison, nein?” He asked, stopping to read my face as I answered.
“That would be excellent to know, yes.” I said with strained patience.
“Gut. Regardless of ze poison result, I vill also run it through mein centrifuge to separate any of ze independent components zat can be centrifuged apart. Ziss vill give me a better understanding of vat it vas its creator used to make ziss, vich vill tell me exactly vat ze chemical is. Zen, I vill call you viss ze results.”
“Just like that huh? Seems like it shouldn’t take more than a few hours. Why a whole day?” I asked.
“Because, mein freund, chemistry iss a precise science. If I add too much or not enough of an agent, zen I have to start over. If I run it in ze centrifuge for too long or not long enough, I can ruin ze sample or waste time. You vill have your answer by ziss time tomorrow. You have mein vord,” and he reached out his hand in a gesture of promise. I returned the handshake, sealing our deal.
“Well, Anton, I really appreciate you helping me, but like I said, this isn’t a social call. I have places to be, and no time to spare.”
“Mercury, you are alvays velcome here. But, not mein home. Zat iss a place for me and mein cat only,” he said. I looked past him at his would-be desk that was covered in mountains of papers. A little picture frame sat in the middle of the mess with a picture of a grey Maine Coon in the center. It had the smallest patch of black pigment that sat just between its nose and mouth and was wearing a name tag shaped like a cat paw on its collar that read Adolf.
