If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Also everyone I have a new novel a Dragon Age Inquisition novel named "From Couch To The Inquisitor", be sure to check it out and give some power stone)
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Caleb watched the raw, terrifying power of the machine, his mind already calculating the logistical nightmare of scaling the structure up to the size of a skyscraper. But the prototype worked. The physics were sound. The bridge to Europe was actively being forged in the fire of the primary coils. At exactly five o'clock, true to his absolute, unyielding vow to Mary-Beth, Caleb cut the power to the dynamo. He ignored Tesla's frantic pleas to run just one more capacitance test, washed the heavy stench of ozone from his hands, and walked out the door.
The weeks settled into this intense, productive rhythm. Caleb spent his mornings managing the explosive growth of the Thorne Holding Company and communicating with Henry Ford via the secure radio line. From ten until five, he vanished into the electrical storms of Tesla's laboratory, manually winding copper and forging the impossible architecture of the magnifying transmitter.
But he did not neglect his other pioneers.
Twice a week, Caleb would alter his schedule, taking one of the newly minted, pitch black Model T automobiles from the estate and driving himself down the long, dusty coastal roads to the Lemoyne aviation testing grounds.
He didn't bring an entourage on these trips. He drove alone, enjoying the raw, mechanical isolation of the roaring motorcar.
When he arrived at the isolated hangar, he found Wilbur and Orville entirely consumed by the evolution of their flying machine. The wreckage of the first flyer had been entirely stripped. In its place, a larger, sleeker, far more aggressive machine was taking shape on the heavy wooden workbenches.
"The tubular steel framing is a revelation, Caleb," Wilbur reported during one of Caleb's visits, running a hand over the gleaming, lightweight metal struts that now formed the skeletal structure of the wings. "It weighs virtually the same as the ash wood, but the tensile strength allows us to increase the wingspan by six feet without risking structural failure in a heavy bank."
"And the fuel injection?" Caleb asked, walking around the newly forged aluminum engine block resting on a testing mount.
"Perfected," Orville grinned, wiping a smear of grease from his cheek, the dark bruise from his crash landing having finally faded into a dull yellow. "We bypassed the gravity float entirely. I machined a small, rotary mechanical pump driven by the camshaft. It forces the gasoline directly into the intake manifold under thirty pounds of pressure. We could fly this machine completely upside down, and the engine wouldn't stutter for a fraction of a second."
Caleb nodded approvingly, his eyes scanning the rear of the pilot's cradle. Resting neatly in a custom designed canvas bag, bolted directly to the primary steel struts of the chassis, was the meticulously packed silk parachute.
"I see you integrated the failsafe into the primary design," Caleb noted softly.
"We are not fools, Caleb," Wilbur said, his tone dead serious. "We know exactly how close we came to losing everything on that first flight. The parachute is permanently integrated into the pilot harness. The static line is secured to the frame. We don't leave the ground without it."
"Good," Caleb smiled, placing a hand on the cold steel of the wing strut. "Because when this machine is finished, we aren't going to test it by hopping two hundred yards across the grass. We are going to push it. We are going to climb to a thousand feet, and we are going to see exactly what the sky is made of."
The brothers exchanged a look of pure, adrenaline fueled anticipation. They had the capital, they had the steel, and they had the safety net.
The Thorne empire was firing on every single cylinder. The motorcars were dominating the roads, the radios were capturing the airwaves, the hospitals were rising from the mud, and the airplanes were preparing to conquer the clouds.
And as Caleb climbed back into the driver's seat of his Model T, pulling the spark lever and feeling the immediate, roaring response of the engine, he knew this was only the prelude. When the radio tower finally pierced the ocean and reached the mind of a young patent clerk in Switzerland, the real revolution would begin.
The heavy, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the main hallway was entirely drowned out by the sudden, rapid thud of Vincenzo's leather shoes against the marble floor.
Caleb, who had just returned to the mansion from a highly productive morning at the T&T Radio Wave factory, was standing in the foyer, shrugging out of his dark overcoat. He turned as his underboss practically sprinted through the front doors, a yellow Western Union telegraph slip gripped tightly in his hand. Vincenzo's sharp, usually unreadable face was split by a massive, triumphant grin.
"Boss," Vincenzo announced, catching his breath as he waved the slip of paper. "The first medical giant is arriving. The train from Baltimore just pulled into the Saint Denis station. Pierre is there right now."
Caleb's hands stopped on the lapels of his suit jacket. His pulse spiked with a sudden, electric jolt of adrenaline. "Dr. Howell?"
"Dr. William H. Howell, his wife, and their two children," Vincenzo confirmed, reading the jagged text of the wire. "They have officially arrived in Louisiana. Pierre has their luggage secured and is holding them in the VIP lounge at the station, awaiting your orders for transport."
A wide, brilliantly predatory smile broke across Caleb's face. The theoretical phase of the Thorne Medical Institute was over. The physical architect of the college, the brilliant Johns Hopkins physiologist who would design the curriculum and govern the future of American medicine, was sitting in his city.
"Antonio!" Caleb's voice boomed through the grand foyer, carrying the absolute authority of a king whose most vital general had just arrived.
The impeccably dressed head steward appeared from the dining room hallway almost instantly, wiping his hands on a pristine white towel. "Yes, Mr. Thorne?"
"Our first medical defector from Baltimore has arrived," Caleb declared, his mind instantly shifting into a dizzying logistical overdrive. "I want a feast prepared. Tell the head chef to abandon whatever he was planning for lunch and orchestrate a spread that makes the governor's mansion look like a soup kitchen. Roast duck, fresh Gulf oysters, the finest cuts of prime beef, and pull three bottles of the 1880 Bordeaux from the private cellar."
"Immediately, sir," Antonio bowed, his eyes widening slightly at the sheer scale of the culinary demand.
"And Vincenzo," Caleb turned back to his underboss, his eyes gleaming with a ruthless flair for the dramatic. "We are not sending horse drawn carriages to pick up a man of science. I want you to go out to the motor house. Take Thomas and three of the other Detroit drivers. Take four of the Model Ts down to the train station. You put Dr. Howell and his family in those motorcars, and you drive them through the center of Saint Denis so the entire city can see exactly who the Thorne Holding Company is recruiting."
Vincenzo laughed, a sharp, delighted sound, perfectly understanding the psychological warfare of the order. "I'll have the engines cranked in two minutes, Boss. We'll bring them right to the front steps."
As Vincenzo rushed out the door to mobilize the automotive fleet, Caleb took the grand, sweeping staircase two steps at a time, moving with the terrifying speed and grace of a man entirely in his element.
He moved down the plush, carpeted hallway of the second floor, pushing open the heavy double doors to the master suite.
The room was bathed in the warm, golden light of the late morning sun. Mary-Beth was sitting at her ornate mahogany vanity, wearing a comfortable, loose fitting silk morning gown. She was carefully brushing out her long, dark hair, humming softly to herself, a picture of absolute, serene domesticity that stood in stark contrast to the industrial warfare Caleb waged every day.
She caught his reflection in the mirror, her eyes lighting up as they tracked his rapid, energized movements.
"You look like a man who just conquered a new continent," Mary-Beth noted, turning around on her velvet stool, an amused, affectionate smile playing on her lips.
"I didn't conquer a continent, my love. I just raided the great Johns Hopkins," Caleb said, walking over and pressing a fierce, joyful kiss to the top of her head. "Dr. Howell has arrived. Vincenzo and Pierre are picking him and his family up from the station in the motorcars right now. They will be here in less than half an hour."
Mary-Beth's eyes widened, the quiet serenity of the morning instantly vanishing as the social reality of the situation crashed over her. She knew exactly how vital this man was to Caleb's grand design. Dr. Howell was the lynchpin. If he was impressed, the other Baltimore titans, Osler, Halsted, Welch, would follow.
"Half an hour?" Mary-Beth gasped, looking down at her loose silk morning gown. "Caleb Thorne, you give me no warning! I cannot greet the future Dean of your medical college looking like I just rolled out of bed!"
Caleb chuckled, a low, warm sound that rumbled in his chest. "You look more beautiful right now than any lady in this city, Mary-Beth. But yes, we need to project absolute authority. I need you in formal wear."
Mary-Beth stood up, playfully swatting his arm. "Then don't just stand there grinning at me. Help me."
She moved toward the massive, walk in cedar wardrobe that dominated the far wall of the suite. Caleb followed, leaning against the doorframe as she rapidly sorted through a dizzying array of Parisian gowns and tailored southern dresses.
"The dark crimson silk," Caleb suggested softly, his eyes tracking her movements. "With the black lace trim. It's elegant, but it commands the room. It's a dress for a queen, not a socialite."
Mary-Beth pulled the heavy, gorgeous crimson dress from the rack, holding it up against herself in the mirror. It was a stunning piece of tailoring, designed specifically by Caleb's chosen dressmakers to accommodate the early, subtle swell of her three month pregnancy without sacrificing an ounce of high fashion structure.
"Turn around," Mary-Beth ordered with a breathless laugh, stepping behind the ornate changing screen.
Caleb turned his back, listening to the soft, luxurious rustle of silk and linen as she quickly changed out of her morning gown. "I specifically ordered the tailors to abandon those barbaric whalebone corsets for your new dresses," Caleb called out to the screen. "You are breathing for two now. I will not have my wife crushing her internal organs just to satisfy the archaic fashion standards of French designers."
"And I thank you for it every single day," Mary-Beth's voice floated over the screen, laced with genuine relief. "I don't know how I ever survived wearing those traps in camp. Though, without the corset, getting the back buttons aligned on this dress is a nightmare. Come here."
Caleb stepped around the screen. Mary-Beth was standing with her back to him, holding the heavy crimson silk together at the nape of her neck. Her dark hair was swept over one shoulder, exposing the smooth, elegant line of her spine.
Caleb stepped in close, his hands entirely gentle as he took over the task. His long, calloused fingers, the same fingers that had meticulously wound high voltage copper coils with Nikola Tesla just the day before, moved with absolute, tender precision, slipping the tiny pearl buttons through the silk loops working down her back.
"You are shaking, Caleb," Mary-Beth observed softly, feeling the faint, high frequency tremor of adrenaline in his fingertips against her skin.
"I am excited," Caleb admitted, his voice dropping into a quiet, deeply intimate register. He smoothed the crimson fabric over her shoulders, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her bare neck. "This is the turning point, Mary-Beth. We built the factories, and we built the bank accounts. But today... today we start building the legacy. We are bringing the finest medical minds on earth to our doorstep to ensure that when our child comes into this world, they are born into a fortress."
Mary-Beth turned around, placing her hands flat against his chest. She looked up into his eyes, seeing the raw, unyielding protective instinct burning behind his calculating intellect. She felt a profound, overwhelming wave of love for this terrifying, brilliant man.
"You are going to change the world, Caleb," she whispered, rising onto her toes to kiss him softly. "Now, go change your suit. You smell like machine oil and ozone."
Twenty minutes later, Caleb and Mary-Beth stood side by side on the sprawling, shaded portico of the mansion. Caleb was wearing a flawlessly tailored, midnight blue three piece suit, a silver pocket watch chain draped across his vest. Mary-Beth looked absolutely radiant beside him in the crimson silk, exuding the warm grace of a woman who fully understood her power.
Antonio stood respectfully behind them, flanked by four uniformed footmen. At the base of the marble steps, Silvio and Arthur Morgan stood guard, their suits crisp, their eyes scanning the perimeter with lethal efficiency.
The low, rhythmic, guttural roar of four internal combustion engines echoed up the long gravel driveway before the vehicles even came into view.
A moment later, the convoy of pitch black Model T motorcars turned through the towering iron gates.
They rolled majestically up the oak lined avenue, the heavy pneumatic tires crunching against the gravel. The sight was undeniably intimidating. To a family from Baltimore, where horse drawn carriages were still the absolute, unquestioned standard of transit, being picked up at a train station by a fleet of roaring, smoking, self propelled metal beasts must have felt like stepping onto another planet.
The four motorcars pulled into the circular turnaround, idling in perfect, staggered formation.
Vincenzo stepped out of the lead car, moving with crisp, professional speed to open the rear passenger door. Pierre stepped out of the second vehicle, his leather briefcase in hand, offering a polite smile to the guests.
Dr. William H. Howell stepped out of the first Model T.
He was a distinguished man in his early forties, wearing a conservative, heavy tweed academic suit that was entirely unsuited for the humid Louisiana heat. He had a sharp, highly intelligent face, framed by a neat mustache and piercing, analytical eyes. He looked slightly windblown from the open-air ride, but his expression was one of profound, absolute shock.
He didn't immediately look at Caleb. He turned back, staring at the idling engine of the motorcar he had just ridden in, shaking his head in disbelief.
Behind him, his wife, a remarkably elegant woman in a tailored traveling dress, stepped out of the vehicle, holding the hands of a teenage boy and a younger girl. She looked up at the towering, pristine white facade of the Thorne mansion, the sprawling, manicured gardens, and the heavily armed men standing at the perimeter, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension.
Pierre gestured toward the portico. "Dr. Howell, Mrs. Howell. Allow me to introduce your host."
Caleb walked down the marble steps, his hand extended, projecting the absolute pinnacle of southern hospitality layered over modern, industrial dominance.
"Dr. Howell," Caleb said, his voice carrying a warm, deeply resonant authority. "Welcome to Saint Denis. I am Caleb Thorne."
Howell tore his eyes away from the motorcar and looked at Caleb. The brilliant physiologist blinked, clearly taken aback. He had expected a gray haired, weathered southern tycoon, a man built in the mold of Carnegie or Rockefeller. Instead, he was shaking hands with a man who was shockingly young, yet possessed an aura of gravity and power that was physically palpable.
"Mr. Thorne," Howell replied, his grip firm as he shook Caleb's hand. "I... I must admit, I am at a slight disadvantage. Your legal counsel painted a vivid picture of your enterprise, but this..." Howell gestured wildly to the Model T and the sprawling estate. "This is entirely beyond my comprehension. We covered the distance from the station in a fraction of the time a horse would take, and the machine didn't even tire."
"The internal combustion engine is the future of transit, Doctor," Caleb smiled smoothly. "Just as you are the future of American medicine. I am profoundly grateful that you accepted my offer."
"You made a highly compelling argument, Mr. Thorne," Howell chuckled, the initial shock beginning to wear off, replaced by a fierce, academic curiosity. "When a man offers you a blank check to design a medical curriculum from the ground up, without the suffocating bureaucracy of a university board... one would have to be a fool to reject it."
"Allow me to introduce my wife, Mary-Beth," Caleb said, turning and offering his hand to his wife as she descended the final steps.
Mary-Beth stepped forward, offering a warm, brilliant smile that instantly shattered the intimidating atmosphere of the estate. She extended her hand to Howell's wife.
"Mrs. Howell, it is an absolute pleasure to have you in our home," Mary-Beth said, her voice rich with genuine kindness. "I can only imagine how exhausting the train ride from Baltimore must have been. Please, tell me these men didn't terrify you with those loud machines on the ride over."
Anne Howell's tense shoulders visibly relaxed at Mary-Beth's warm, grounding presence. She smiled, taking Mary-Beth's hand. "It is wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Thorne. And truthfully... the ride was terrifying for the first three minutes, and utterly exhilarating for the rest. I fear I shall never be able to look at a horse the same way again."
Mary-Beth laughed, a bright, musical sound. "My husband has a habit of ruining the past for people. Please, come inside. You must be parched, and Antonio has prepared a rather extensive welcome lunch for you."
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl MAX)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Bow (Lvl MAX)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl MAX)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl MAX)
- Leadership (Lvl MAX)
Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 283,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall
Bank: -