Chapter 21
Edgar Cizko was a man of foresight, not of reconsideration; but by necessity far more than preference, he had surrounded himself with men barely-able to conduct a civil conversation, much less contribute to a philosophical discussion. He had secured himself in his studio, his 'assistants' as he generously referred to them, aware once he was behind wood and brick any disturbance would lead to the disappearance of the unfortunate offender. Edgar sat thoughtfully upon a high stool behind a tall table of oak and glass, where a map of London sat illuminated from below. He had sent the men off to do whatever those men did, while he reviewed his plans and assured himself that two nights from now nothing could go wrong and all those who had dismissed; who had mocked; who had laughed; would never laugh again. Not unless he ordered them to.
When the glorious Summer of 1914 came to a crashing halt on that first Tuesday of August, nearly every man in England, believing each individual as strong as the Empire itself, decided it was time to teach the Huns a lesson. The conflict had been building for years: secret treaties, vows of support between Monarchies and Governments, brokered arrangements and veiled threats largely intended as more bluff than swagger. But France believed years ago they had been wronged and Germany felt they had been threatened; or was it the other way around?; and once Austrian Archduke and presumptive heir to the crown Franz Ferdinand and his wife were assassinated, on June 28 by a fanatical teen-age freedom-fighter over indignities imposed by one nationalist group upon another, alliances and ententes arranged for convenience transformed a regional conflict into a world-wide war no one predicted and few wanted.
Thankfully, the war wouldn't last more than a few months; 'Home by Christmas' was the slogan, the Bosch would be put back into their place and England would reign supreme just as it had for nearly two centuries - ignoring that embarrassing American debacle - and France would go on to do whatever France did. Throughout August and into the Autumn volunteers flocked to recruiting stations while there was still time to join into this grand adventure; men of all shapes and sizes queued patiently, some returning day after day believing simply by virtue of their manhood they would be accepted. But requirements in those early months were strict and men suited for most any other job were found by the Army to be lacking in chest size or smiled revealing missing teeth or had less than perfect eyesight. Edgar Cizko was there, along with many others who probably had little chance of passing the physical exam, let alone selected for service; but by luck or inattention of a sergeant, thought their odds as good as any of their chums. Edgar, whom nature had hampered with small and bent body but compensated by a brilliant and strong mind, knew without a miracle he would never see front-line duty; but he wasn't at the recruiting station to carry a rifle; he came offering something no other man could.
"Sorry son, not lookin' at anyone under twenty-one years" the sergeant said, pushing Edgar aside. Years past Edgar had stopped noting the pointless measurements of his body to concentrate on building his brain, but at his tallest he had still been many inches from five feet.
"I'm no child, sergeant" Edgar replied. "I am thirty-two years of age, and in fine physical condition for a man of my stature. I demand to speak with an officer."
"Wha's this?" the solider replied, bending down and surveying the little man from head to toe. "Ain't no circus we're mustering 'ere, chum. Why don' you hurry on home, let us get'n with man's work."
"I will excuse your coarseness due to your ignorance. I assure you I am the equal; no, the superior of any one-hundred men." He turned and spread his arms to symbolically indicate the crowd, but instead looked like a boy wanting a hug.
"HA!" the sergeant yelled, joined by a few dozen of the nearest applicants. "Mus' be some kind'a joke."
" 'Ere now, move along fur real men th'can fight!" came a voice from the back of the queue.
Two Red-caps; military policemen; drifted over from their positions at the enlistment station. "Problem here, Sergeant?"
"Man's 'olding up the line. Takin' a joke too far."
"I assure you this is no joke; in actuality, my actions could end the war weeks, it not months, earlier. I demand to speak with a ranking officer" he announced to the guards.
"He's busy right now, uh, sir" was the reply, both soldiers urging Edgar out of line and away from the crowd by force and implication. "Why don't you try the Ministry?" both laughed as they turned away.
"If necessary, I shall" Edgar announced into a crowd that wasn't listening. "But first", he continued in words not intended for anyone but himself, "I'll provide other officers an opportunity to say he was the man who recruited the man who won the war."
"That's one of'em midgets, jus' like I seen in Barnum's show!"
"Don' need no bleedin' Canary Wharf embarassin' th' King."
"Wall bein' that short, maybe th' Huns won't see'em."
"Can always join the transport corps. Tha' close ta the ground makes it easier to clean up after the 'orses."
Through the Autumn and into the next year; when the War had not ended by Christmas but concerns had turned to whether the War would end at all; Edgar Cizko presented himself at recruiting depots; clashed with Corporals; Sergeants; and Officers; and attempted to arrange for appointments with Brigade; Divisional; and Army Commanders; but the results were always the same: He was ignored; ridiculed; scoffed at; denied and on multiple occasions, threatened by men so inferior, Edgar had become nauseated and disturbed to think he had fallen so low. The dismissals, themselves, had little effect; he'd known of lifetime of rejection and had long ago understood those as base reactions of the insignificant. His greatest sense had been of suffocation and confinement; of being encaged, desperate and claustrophobic, knowing he had the ability to act, to make a difference, but without the means to do so.
'A man of my abilities, cast as a pearl among swine' he considered one mid-January day, reading in the Times of an attack to the English coast by German airships. 'Perhaps by my own doing; by positioning myself as any other Englishman, eager and proud to serve his country, I've been grouped along with any other Englishman. Only those at the uppermost offices of Government can fully comprehend what I offer. Rather than crawling alongside worms, my place is soaring among eagles.'
Only by approaching those at the top, Edgar believed, could he gain the results he desired, which were ultimately the best results for all of Britain. And if none in England possessed the intelligence to comprehend his offer, they were not the only combatants in this war; the Germans, he knew, had always been known as a very perceptive and practical people.
Chapter 22
"Controlling a mans' mind, ah?" The general, old enough to have served during Victoria's reign, had clearly been promoted and placed so that the status of his position was in direct opposition to his ability to make, or anyone obey, any command decision he might order. In more than thirty months no approach Edgar had tried, even writing directly to the King, had any effect. During a particularly bad year when the war had seemed lost or never-ending; through a tempered 'suggestion' to his MP, who Edgar knew was a believer of Spiritualism and therefore open to such 'suggestions', particularly if cloaked in a way that made him believe he had thought of it himself; Edgar secured a meeting within the Army's higher ranks. Shuffled from one office to the next, this general was not the first person of any authority Edgar would have wished to meet but having now been admitted to the upper floors of the War Ministry, Edgar had no option but to use the opportunity to his advantage.
"Could have used that at Isandlwana, what say? Nasty Blackguard's fighting with spears and shields still managed to get the best of us...took no quarter, massacred the camp to a man and went on to slaughter those poor horses. Ghastly, ghastly time. If it hadn't have been for the brave lads at Rorke's we've have lost the day. A chum of mine, met one another at Sandhurst back in '59, I believe it was..."
"Yes, I'm certain it was unpleasant" Edgar impatiently answered, rejecting any interest to what was past and gone and of no value unless there was benefit in it for himself. "Yet a repetition of similar events I can prevent; one battle is the same as another; the mind of one man, or one group of men, is no different than any other. All can be...influenced."
"I see, I see" the general replied, absently stroking his white mutton-chops until Edgar, seeing the old man begin to totter to one side, couldn't tell if he was drifting asleep or unsteady due to the abundance of medals on the left breast of his coat. "Actually?" the officer sprang to life more suddenly than even Edgar's ability to raise the spirits. "Tell a man what to do not by voice, but with mental suggestion? And not one man at a time or ranked in parade, but hundreds, you claim? Wherever they may be? Not some parlour trick, I trust. Not long ago my wife insisted we visit this so-named 'Channelist' who claimed..." he paused with a raspy cough.
"I could demonstrate but my work at times results in permanent damage to the subject; those with weak minds are particularly susceptible" Edgar replied, wondering what effect he would have on a man whose mind was already partially absent. "As for extent, results depend upon the amplification. But given the proper equipment and preparation, I can order the German army to set down its weapons and their commanders to surrender."
"And what was it, again, you say you need to embark on this strategy?"
"The brain patterns I can produce, which I've termed 'mental conveyance'; are amplified when passed though, and among, crystals. The more flawless the crystalline structure, the more powerful and pure is the conveyance. As I've calculated, approximately thirty-nine ounces should be sufficient; fifty to account for any imperfections. No less than 6000 carats and of course adequate electrical resources to power and concentrate the matrix. I may need to borrow the Crown Jewels; temporarily, of course"
"Quite, quite." The general leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands on top of his desk. "That is a sacrifice I do not believe His Highness would be willing to make. Certainly it hasn't come to that, my friend; our armies are standing strong, any setbacks have been minor inconveniences with many lessons learned. I understand there's plans for a great push coming up which should settle things our way. No, I don't believe His Highness would support that at all. Jolly ambitious suggestion, though. Good of you to come in." He leaned back in his chair, signaling this meeting had ended.
Edgar started to rise, but paused; he had done everything possible to help win this war in a way only he could, for over two years acting as a gentleman and good Englishman; persistent but undemanding, assured but not aggressive; a faithful citizen of the Empire. And this meeting may be his final chance to win the war for England. He didn't look forward to a long and exhausting journey to Germany and the struggle with language and their heavy foods. He focused his brain upon the general's, forming images of recommendations and strategies, of signatures and approvals. He created impressions of an Empire-wide search for the largest and most perfect gemstones, each willingly relinquished and positioned into a tall, graceful tower connecting his thoughts across the Channel into France; Belgium; Italy; Mesopotamia; and Germany itself, resulting in the surrender, en masse, of enemy soldiers and capitulation of their government. Edgar envisioned this old man again being acknowledged; respected; of glories long lost, returned; and placed these ideas into the general's brain, knowing it would only be an instant before the general, himself, believed he had thought of those things himself.
But the officer sat impatiently, wondering why this little man continued to sit across from him and questioning what more he could do, without being rude, that would encourage him to leave.
"Brilliant day" he offered, glancing back through a window. "Makes a man want to take a stroll through the park."
Edgar redoubled his efforts, placing his fingertips to his temples and with eyes half-shut, focusing his images more sharply, driving his wishes into the old man's mind.
"When I was a lad, used to enjoy flying kites" the general continued. "Harmless distraction, but brought me much joy. Now, aircraft carry men through those same skies. Progress marches on, ah?"
No technique Edgar tried worked as it should. Could this man's brain be so far gone there was nothing left to connect? Was he so feeble and soft, images, suggestions, had no place to lodge? Without a show of appreciation or thanks, Edgar turned and walked out; a man this old and useless was not worthy of his gift. And how dare he call Edgar 'friend'. Edgar was neither the 'friend' of this man; nor of any.
"Odd little chap" the general mumbled to himself, continuing to look out the window while recalling his boyhood. "Takes things far too much to heart. A man reaches the age where he begins to realise all things eventually work out as they should. Comes a time when one simply accepts. Makes life far more pleasant."