Chapter 99: The Industry
A week later, in the Machine Shop Office.
By the time the familiar skyline of factory chimneys finally appeared on the horizon, Ernest’s mind had already moved far beyond royal banquets and noble titles.
The telegraph.
The word itself sounded deceptively simple.
In reality, the machine represented one of the largest engineering projects he had attempted since arriving in this world.
Perhaps larger than the steam engine.
Certainly more complicated.
Steam engines only needed to function inside a building.
The telegraph needed to function across an entire kingdom.
The moment their carriage rolled through the gates of Helmarte Machine Works, Ernest’s eyes instinctively drifted toward the rows of workshops, warehouses, and production halls spread across the industrial complex.
Workers moved between buildings carrying castings and machine components.
The familiar rhythm of steam-powered line shafts drifted through the afternoon air.
The sounds felt comforting. It was predictable.
Machines obeyed rules. Politics did not. And obviously, kings did not.
The telegraph belonged firmly in the first category.
That, at least, gave him confidence.
The following morning found Ernest alone inside his office.
Actually, office was no longer the correct word.
Over the past three years it had gradually transformed into something closer to an engineering bureau.
Blueprints covered one wall.
Maps occupied another.
Shelves overflowed with technical drawings, ledgers, and notebooks filled with calculations and observations.
A large blackboard stood near the windows.
By midday, every inch of it had disappeared beneath chalk.
At the center, written in large letters, was a single phrase.
Royal Telegraph Project.
Beneath it, Ernest had divided the problem into sections.
Proof of Concept.
Power Generation.
Transmission Lines.
Signal Equipment.
Operator Training.
Infrastructure Construction.
Maintenance.
He stared at the list for several moments.
Then slowly nodded.
Good. Much better.
Because engineering projects had a tendency to fail when people treated them as singular problems.
The telegraph was not one invention.
It was an ecosystem.
And ecosystems failed when even one part stopped functioning.
His eyes settled on the first item.
Proof of Concept.
This one was non-negotiable.
There was absolutely no chance that King Edward would authorize hundreds of kilometers of copper wire, thousands of poles, and hundreds of workers without first seeing the machine function with his own eyes.
Nor should he.
If Ernest were king, he would demand the same thing.
He walked toward the blackboard and wrote another line beneath it.
Phase One:
Palace Demonstration Unit.
Distance Requirement:
Twenty Meters.
His thoughts immediately became clearer.
Yes.
That was how this needed to happen.
A small demonstration inside the palace.
One operator presses a key.
Another receives the signal.
If the king witnessed a message travel instantly across a room, convincing him that the same principle could work across a kingdom became infinitely easier.
Engineering projects succeeded through incremental validation.
He crossed out the words Proof of Concept and replaced them with Demonstration Network.
Much better.
His attention shifted downward.
Power Generation.
Because this was the real problem.
The telegraph itself was simple.
Electricity was not.
Or rather...Generating electricity was not.
He walked toward the window and stared at the factory grounds below.
Copper wire could be produced.
Insulators could be manufactured from porcelain or glass.
Wooden poles could be cut from forests.
None of those worried him.
The battery worried him.
Because batteries did not exist.
Not in any meaningful form.
Which meant he was not building a telegraph.
He was introducing electrochemistry.
His chalk moved across the board once more.
Copper.
Zinc.
Acid.
Electrolyte Solution.
Containers.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Voltaic piles.
Actually...No.
He crossed it out.
Voltaic piles were simple but unreliable.
The Daniell cell would be better.
Much better. Stable voltage and longer operational life.
Far more practical for telegraph use.
The problem was that the Daniell cell would not exist for another century in his original world.
Meaning he would have to invent it himself.
Again.
His chalk moved once more.
Copper Electrode.
Zinc Electrode.
Copper Sulfate.
Sulfuric Acid.
Porous Separator.
He stared at the list.
The materials themselves were not difficult.
Copper sulfate could be produced chemically.
Sulfuric acid already existed in primitive forms through alchemy and mining industries.
Zinc would be the real challenge.
Not impossible. Just inconvenient.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter."
The door opened.
Hollen stepped inside carrying several ledgers.
The older man immediately stopped.
Then looked toward the blackboard.
Then toward Ernest.
Then back again.
There was writing everywhere.
Equations. Sketches. Lists. Arrows. Boxes.
The room looked less like an office and more like the planning room for an invasion.
"Should I come back later?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Probably."
Hollen approached cautiously.
"What am I looking at?"
"The project."
The forge owner stared at the board.
"I understand approximately four words."
"That’s more than I expected."
Hollen ignored him.
His eyes stopped on one phrase.
Battery Development.
"What is a battery?"
Ernest leaned back in his chair.
"A container for electricity."
The older man blinked.
"You can put lightning inside a box?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous."
"It is ridiculous."
Actually...
He wasn’t wrong.
Ernest smiled slightly.
"The telegraph requires a source of energy."
"And the battery provides that?"
"Exactly."
Hollen studied the board again.
"And if you solve this problem..."
He pointed toward Battery Development.
"...you solve the telegraph problem?"
"Partially."
The older man sighed.
"There are more problems."
"Many more."
Ernest pointed toward another section.
"Copper production."
Another.
"Insulators."
Another.
"Operator training."
Another.
"Maintenance infrastructure."
Hollen stared.
"You’re building an entire industry again, aren’t you?"
The young engineer considered it. Then nodded.
"Probably."
The forge owner dropped into a chair.
"I miss soap."
"So do I."
"Soap was easier."
Ernest looked back toward the blackboard.
Another realization slowly formed in his mind.
Actually...this project might lead somewhere else entirely.
His eyes drifted toward the oil lamp sitting on his desk.
A small flame flickered quietly behind glass.
A technology humanity had relied upon for thousands of years.
His expression slowly changed.
Hollen noticed immediately.
"Oh no."
"What?"
"You have the look again."
"I don’t have a look."
"You absolutely have a look."
The forge owner pointed accusingly.
"What did you just think of?"
Ernest hesitated.
Then smiled.
"Nothing important."
That answer worried Hollen even more.
Because every time Ernest described something as not important, entire industries emerged shortly afterward.
The young engineer stood and walked toward the window.
Electricity. Batteries. Copper wires. Insulators. Generators. Motors. Telegraphs. Lighting.
His eyes slowly widened.
Because the telegraph was not the destination.
It was the first step.
The moment this world learned how to generate, control, and distribute electricity...
Everything would change.
Factories could operate after sunset.
Cities could be illuminated.
Homes could be transformed.
Entire industries that did not yet exist would suddenly become possible.
In another world, electricity had become the foundation of civilization itself.
And somehow...a king’s request for a military communication device might become the event that introduced it centuries early.
Behind him, Hollen spoke carefully.
"Ernest."
"Yes?"
"You’re smiling again."
The young engineer looked toward the blackboard covered in plans, materials, and calculations.
Then toward the oil lamp flickering quietly on his desk.
Finally, he looked back toward his friend.
"I think," he said slowly, "the Kingdom of Belfast may have accidentally funded something much larger than a telegraph."
Hollen closed his eyes.
"Of course it did."
Outside the office window, steam drifted from the engine house chimney and disappeared into the afternoon sky.
Inside, beneath pages of calculations and engineering sketches, the first foundations of the electrical age were quietly being drawn.
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