Chapter 590 - 590: 562. Unexpected News Of Joy

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Caleb utilized the vast, entangled network of the Saint Denis Business Club to quietly poach some of the finest, most experienced manufacturing foremen and supply chain logistics managers from rival textile and steel firms across the South. He offered them staggering salaries, binding them with ironclad contracts and the intoxicating promise of working on the edge of human history. These men would serve as the trusted heads of the factory, the loyal officers tasked with maintaining Caleb's blind assembly line.

Simultaneously, Caleb opened the hiring lines for the bulk workforce.

Saint Denis was overflowing with cheap, desperate labor, immigrants pouring off the docks, displaced farmers, and men looking for a steady wage. Caleb hired hundreds of them. He offered a wage that was just slightly above the brutal average of the local sugar mills, ensuring immediate loyalty, but he demanded absolute, unbroken efficiency in return. Arthur and John stood quietly near the hiring desks, their silent, lethal presence acting as a profound deterrent against union agitators or company thieves.

Once the assembly lines roared to life, churning out the beautiful, heavy wooden receiver boxes for the commercial market, Caleb and Tesla vanished back into the isolated, highly secure swamp laboratory.

The public market was functioning. Now, they had to deliver on the promise Caleb had made to the President of the United States.

They had to build the secure, restricted military networks.

It was an agonizingly difficult engineering puzzle. The technology of 1900 simply did not support the concept of true cryptographic frequency hopping or secure digital encryption. If you broadcast a powerful electromagnetic wave, anyone with an antenna and enough patience could eventually tune their dial to find it.

The War Department needed a radio that the commercial market could not accidentally stumble upon, and the Executive Branch needed a line that the military could not casually monitor.

"We are fighting the fundamental laws of physics, Caleb!" Tesla shouted one evening, hurling a piece of chalk against the blackboard in frustration. "I can push the military transmitters into the ultra high frequency bands, but the commercial receivers still possess a wide enough capacitance net to pick up the bleed over! If a civilian turns his dial too far to the right, he will hear the Navy coordinating their ships guns coordination!"

Caleb stood over a workbench, staring at a disassembled brass dial, his mind racing.

His Max Level Past Life Memory was firing on all cylinders. He remembered the basic principles of modern radio, the tight bandpass filters, the quartz crystal oscillators that locked modern electronics onto microscopic, razor thin frequencies. He knew the theory, but he had to figure out how to physically build it using 1900s copper, glass, and brass.

Caleb picked up a heavy file and a block of solid brass, his Crafting Skill guiding his hands with unnatural, flawless precision.

"Then we don't just change the frequency, Nikola," Caleb said, his voice quiet as the file bit into the metal. "We physically blind the commercial receivers. We mandate a mechanical limitation on the dials we sell to the public. We build a hard, physical stop into the tuning capacitors so they literally cannot turn far enough to reach the ultra high bands."

Tesla blinked, his frustration pausing as he processed the brutal simplicity of the mechanical solution.

"And for the military and government?" Tesla asked.

"We build them a completely different machine," Caleb explained, continuing to file the brass down into a precise, specialized tuning fork. "We use a mechanical bandpass filter. I can machine a resonating metallic fork that only vibrates at an exact, microscopic frequency. We wire it directly into the audio circuit of the military receiver. Even if someone finds the frequency, if their receiver doesn't have the exact, matching physical tuning fork to complete the circuit, the signal just sounds like dead static."

Tesla stared at the piece of brass in Caleb's hands, his brilliant mind instantly grasping the mechanical genius of the workaround. It wasn't modern digital encryption, but for the turn of the twentieth century, it was effectively unbreakable.

"A physical acoustic lock and key," Tesla whispered, his eyes wide. "Caleb, that is... that is brilliantly unorthodox. It defies standard electrical engineering!"

"I'm not an electrical engineer, Nikola," Caleb smiled, holding up the perfectly machined brass filter. "I'm a manufacturer. Now, let's build the President his private line."

A few nights later, Caleb sat alone in the quiet luxury of his study at the mansion. The rest of the house was asleep, save for Vincenzo standing guard in the hall.

Resting on Caleb's desk was the first completed, highly secure government prototype.

He flipped the heavy toggle switch, letting the vacuum tubes warm up. He adjusted the specialized brass dial, feeling it lock into place as the internal tuning fork aligned with the restricted federal frequency.

He picked up the microphone. "Saint Denis actual to Executive Mansion. Do you read?"

A few moments of hissing static filled the room, followed by the crisp, instantly recognizable voice of President William McKinley.

"I read you clearly, Caleb. It is late. Is there an issue with the manufacturing lines?"

"No, Mr. President. The T&T Radio Wave factory is fully operational. The first shipment of the secure military prototypes will be loaded onto a heavily guarded railcar by the end of the week."

"Music to my ears," McKinley sighed, sounding exhausted. "The War Department is practically foaming at the mouth to get them onto the naval cruisers. I appreciate the update, Caleb."

"There is another reason I called, sir," Caleb said, his voice dropping into a somber, intensely serious register.

"Go ahead."

Caleb knew he was treading on incredibly dangerous historical ground, but he had to try. He knew exactly what the next year held for the man on the other end of the radio. He knew about the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo. He knew about Leon Czolgosz, the anarchist with a concealed revolver.

"You are fresh from winning your election, Mr. President," Caleb began carefully. "You will be traveling. Shaking hands. Moving through massive, uncontrolled crowds."

*"That is the nature of the American republic, Caleb,"* McKinley replied lightly. *"A president must be seen by his people."*

"The world is changing, sir," Caleb pressed, his grip tightening on the microphone. "The industrial monopolies are expanding, the labor unions are growing violent, and the anarchist movements in Europe are bleeding across the Atlantic. I strongly advise you to formally restructure your security detail."

"I have local police and military escorts when necessary."

"It isn't enough," Caleb countered bluntly. "I recommend you issue an executive directive to the Treasury Department. Take the Secret Service, the men you currently use to hunt counterfeiters, and permanently repurpose them as a full time, elite bodyguard detail dedicated solely to protecting the President and his family."

The radio line was silent for a long moment. Only the faint hum of the vacuum tubes broke the quiet.

"I urge you to remember President Lincoln, sir," Caleb added softly, driving the historical knife deep. "He believed he was safe among his people as well."

McKinley let out a heavy, static laced sigh. "That is a grim comparison, Caleb."

"It is a necessary one."

"I will... I will discuss the matter with Secretary Root and the Treasury Secretary," McKinley finally conceded, though his tone was highly skeptical. "But I cannot promise you anything. The American people do not want their President hiding behind a wall of armed federal agents like a terrified Russian Tsar. It projects weakness. I feel it is simply not needed."

Caleb closed his eyes, a cold knot of fatalistic dread twisting in his stomach. He had pushed as far as he could without sounding like a madman. He couldn't force the President to change his fate, and he couldn't openly declare that an assassin was already waiting in the wings.

"Just think on it, Mr. President," Caleb said quietly. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Caleb."

Caleb released the lever, cutting the connection. He stared at the wooden box for a long time, the heavy burden of his past life knowledge weighing on him like an anchor. He could build the machines that connected the world, but he could not save men from their own pride.

He stood up, pouring himself a small glass of bourbon to wash away the bitter taste of the conversation, and walked out of the study.

The mansion was quiet, the gas lamps turned low. Caleb walked softly down the long hallway toward the drawing room, expecting to find it empty.

Instead, he found Mary-Beth sitting on one of the plush velvet sofas, a thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders. A single lamp was burning on the side table, illuminating a stack of manuscript pages and an uncapped fountain pen.

But Mary-Beth wasn't writing.

She was leaning back against the cushions, her eyes closed, one hand resting on her forehead. On the low table in front of her sat a highly unusual silver platter that Antonio must have brought her. It held a bizarre combination of sharp, pickled eggs, a block of sharp cheddar cheese, and a plate of incredibly sweet, heavily iced lemon cakes.

Caleb frowned, stepping into the room. "Mary-Beth? It's past midnight. Why are you still awake?"

She opened her eyes, offering a weak, highly uncharacteristic grimace. Her skin, usually glowing and vibrant, looked terribly pale in the lamplight.

"I was trying to finish this chapter, Caleb," she murmured, her voice tight. "But the room started spinning about twenty minutes ago."

Caleb immediately set his glass down on a side table, crossing the room in three long strides. He knelt beside the sofa, gently pressing the back of his hand against her forehead. She didn't feel feverish, just cold and slightly clammy.

"Are you ill?" Caleb asked, his mind instantly racing through a dozen terrible possibilities. "I can have Vincenzo wake a doctor and bring him here immediately."

"No, no," Mary-Beth shook her head, though the movement clearly made her dizzy. "I'm not sick. At least, I don't think I am. I just... I suddenly felt terribly nauseous. I think it was the food."

She gestured weakly toward the silver platter.

Caleb looked at the bizarre assortment of pickled and intensely sweet food. He had noticed her eating habits changing over the last two weeks, ordering strange combinations from the kitchen at odd hours, but he had been so entirely consumed by the radio factory and the Washington fallout that he hadn't fully registered it.

Suddenly, Mary-Beth clamped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes went wide with panic.

She shoved the heavy shawl off her shoulders, practically sprinting out of the drawing room and down the hall toward the washroom.

Caleb was right behind her. He caught the heavy wooden door before it slammed, stepping into the washroom just as Mary-Beth sank to her knees before the porcelain basin, violently emptying her stomach.

Caleb didn't hesitate. The ruthless industrialist, the man who had just finished negotiating the fate of nations with the President, knelt on the cold tile floor. He gently gathered Mary-Beth's hair, holding it back from her face with one hand, while his other hand rubbed soothing, steady circles on her back.

"It's alright, sweetheart," Caleb murmured softly, his voice a calm, anchoring presence in the small room. "Just breathe. I'm right here."

After a few grueling minutes, the violent waves of nausea finally passed. Mary-Beth slumped backward, exhausted and trembling, resting her head against Caleb's chest. He held her tightly, pulling a clean towel from the rack and gently wiping her face.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, sounding embarrassed and drained. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I haven't been sick like this since I was a child."

Caleb held her close, his mind processing the data with the same ruthless, rapid efficiency he applied to his empire. The sudden, intense nausea. The bizarre, overwhelming cravings for strange foods. The sudden bouts of fatigue she had complained about over the last few days.

He gently tilted her chin up, looking into her dark, tired eyes. The realization hit him like a physical blow to the chest, stopping the breath in his lungs.

"Mary-Beth," Caleb asked, his voice suddenly thick with an emotion he hadn't felt in a very long time. "When was the last time you had your menstruation?"

Mary-Beth blinked, confused by the sudden intimate question. She frowned, her mind working through the calendar of the last chaotic month. They had traveled to New York, then to Washington, then the endless train ride back to Saint Denis...

Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened, the exhaustion vanishing, replaced by a sudden, profound shock.

She looked down at her own stomach, and then looked back up at Caleb. Her hands began to tremble.

"Caleb..." she whispered, her voice cracking. "It's... it's been over six weeks."

The silence in the washroom was absolute, deafening.

Caleb, the man who held the absolute reigns of a massive, sprawling industrial monopoly, the man who manipulated bankers, broke outlaws, and bent the federal government to his will, suddenly felt completely disarmed.

He looked at the woman he loved, the woman who had anchored him to his own humanity when the ambition threatened to consume him.

A slow, brilliant, overwhelmingly beautiful smile broke across Caleb's face. He pulled her flush against his chest, burying his face in her hair, holding her as if she were the most precious, fragile thing in the entire world.

The factories, the radios, the Presidents, and the empires instantly vanished from his mind. None of it mattered.

He was going to be a father.

The silence in the washroom stretched for one more suspended, breathless second. Then, Caleb threw his head back and let out a booming, unrestrained shout of euphoric laughter.

The sound echoed off the porcelain tiles, a rich, resonant release of every ounce of tension he had carried since the mud of the Grizzlies. He didn't just smile, he beamed. Before Mary-Beth could even process the sheer magnitude of his reaction, Caleb reached down, caught her by the waist, and effortlessly hoisted her up into his arms.

"Caleb!" Mary-Beth gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders as he spun her around in a dizzying, joyful circle.

He twirled her across the small space, his laughter overflowing, filling the mansion's quiet corridors with a sound so fiercely happy it was entirely foreign to the ruthless industrialist the world knew. For a moment, Mary-Beth panicked, her stomach still rolling slightly from the sudden bout of sickness.

"Caleb, stop, please, put me down!" she pleaded, though a breathless giggle betrayed her panic. "I'm going to be sick all over your expensive suit!"

Caleb instantly halted, practically freezing in place. The unbridled joy immediately snapped into a state of hyper-vigilant, absolute protection. He set her down on her feet so gently it was as if she were made of spun glass, keeping his hands firmly on her waist to steady her.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Caleb murmured rapidly, his dark eyes instantly scanning her face for any sign of distress. "Are you alright? Does your stomach hurt? Do you need water? Should I get Vincenzo to fetch the doctor right now? We can have the chief of medicine from the Saint Denis hospital here in twenty minutes."

Mary-Beth couldn't help it. The sight of the most feared man in the southern hemisphere looking at her as if she were a fragile porcelain doll was too much. She started to giggle, resting her forehead against his chest, her hands gripping the lapels of his suit.

"Caleb, I am fine," she laughed softly, looking up at him. "My body is perfectly fine. It was just a sudden wave. And you need to calm down. We don't even know for absolute certain that I am truly pregnant. I don't want to get your hopes up, or mine, over a missed cycle and a bad plate of lemon cakes."

"It isn't just the cycle, Mary-Beth," Caleb countered, his mind instantly organizing the data with the same ruthless efficiency he applied to his factories. "Think about it. How long have you been feeling this underlying nausea?"

Mary-Beth hesitated, doing the mental math. "A few weeks. Mostly in the mornings, actually. Today was the first time it happened so late at night."

"Morning sickness," Caleb confirmed, his smile returning, softer but no less certain. "And the fatigue? The sudden exhaustion that made you fall asleep on the train in the middle of the afternoon?"

"I thought that was just the stress of Washington," she murmured.

"And the cravings," Caleb gently pointed out, gesturing toward the drawing room. "Pickled eggs and heavily iced lemon cakes at midnight. Sweetheart, you are not ill. You are carrying our child. I am absolutely certain of it."

Mary-Beth looked at him, the reality of his words finally breaking through her cautious defenses. The fear melted away, replaced by a radiant overwhelming warmth. Her eyes filled with tears, and she threw her arms around his neck, holding him fiercely.

Caleb wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His mind was already racing at a thousand miles an hour. He needed to organize a massive celebration. He needed to contact Pierre to begin structuring an entirely new tier of ironclad trusts for his heir. He needed to remodel the east wing of the mansion into a nursery. "We need to announce this," Caleb said, his voice buzzing with energy. "We will host a banquet. I'll have to wire to Strauss in New York. We—"

...

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: -