Chapter 591 - 591: 563. Medical Advancement Plan & Flying Brothers

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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—"

"Caleb," Mary-Beth interrupted softly, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. She placed a gentle finger over his lips. "You are running the empire again. Stop. I am exhausted, my stomach is feeling full now, and all I want in the entire world right now is to go to sleep."

Caleb blinked, the titan of industry instantly yielding to the husband.

"Of course," he whispered, kissing her forehead. "Let's sleep honey."

He didn't let her walk. He scooped her up in his arms again, ignoring her tired protests, and carried her down the hall, gently laying her down in the center of their massive bed.

The next morning, the sprawling mahogany dining table in the Thorne mansion was set for a massive, informal feast.

Caleb had sent Vincenzo out at dawn with explicit instructions, assemble the entire gang. By noon, the dining room was packed. Arthur sat near the head of the table, carving a massive roast with his usual quiet efficiency. John sat beside him, bickering mildly with Bill over a plate of potatoes. Sadie was trading sharp insults with Javier, while Hosea sat quietly, sipping a glass of wine and observing the chaotic, beautiful family they had built.

Sitting next to Mary-Beth was Mary Linton. The former aristocratic widow had seamlessly integrated into the chaotic orbit of the Thorne organization, finding a strange comfort in the protective loyal shadow of the gang. She looked happier and more relaxed than she had in years.

Caleb sat at the head of the table, watching the people who had followed him out of the freezing mud of the mountains. He waited until the plates were full and the volume of the room was at its peak.

Then, he picked up his silver knife and clinked it gently against his crystal water glass.

The sharp, ringing sound cut through the banter. Arthur paused mid slice. Sadie stopped talking. All eyes turned to Caleb, expecting a briefing on a new factory, a political rival, or a shift in the corporate ledgers.

Caleb stood up, resting his hand gently on the back of Mary-Beth's chair. He looked around the table, a rare, unguarded smile breaking across his face.

"I have spent the last year asking all of you to build an empire with me," Caleb began, his voice carrying a rich, emotional weight that immediately commanded the room. "We have fought bankers, politicians, and the federal government. But all of that was just the foundation."

He looked down at Mary-Beth, who reached up to take his free hand, her cheeks flushed with happiness.

"I wanted to bring you all here today to tell you that the foundation is finished," Caleb said, looking back at the gang. "Mary-Beth is pregnant."

For one second, the dining room was completely silent.

And then, it erupted.

Arthur let out a booming laugh, tossing his carving knife onto the platter and standing up to clap Caleb violently on the shoulder. "Well, I'll be damned! A little Thorne running around!"

John grinned, raising his glass high. "Congratulations, Caleb. Truly."

Mary Linton immediately threw her arms around Mary-Beth, pulling her into a fierce hug, while Sadie reached across the table, her face split in a massive, genuine grin. "You're going to be a mother, Mary-Beth! That is wonderful!"

Even Bill and Javier were cheering, raising their beer glasses and shouting toasts.

But it was Hosea who moved Caleb the most. The old con man stood up slowly, leaning heavily on the table. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were shining with unshed tears. He walked around the massive mahogany table and pulled Caleb into a tight, fierce embrace.

"A grandfather again," Hosea whispered, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely allowed himself to show. "I never thought I'd live to see the day I'd hold another grandson, Caleb. You did it, my boy. You built a real life."

"We built it, Hosea," Caleb corrected softly, returning the embrace.

The rest of the afternoon dissolved into a chaotic, joyous celebration. Vincenzo was dispatched to the cellars to retrieve the most expensive champagne the holding company owned. Caleb enthusiastically agreed to Hosea's immediate demands to plan a massive, city wide celebration.

Later that afternoon, Caleb rode out to the western swamps to check on the radio facilities. He found Nikola Tesla hunched over a workbench, furiously calibrating a heavy copper coil.

"Nikola," Caleb called out over the hum of the generators. "Put the wrench down. We are going to have a child."

Tesla froze, the heavy steel wrench slipping from his fingers and clattering against the concrete floor. The eccentric genius turned around, staring at Caleb with wide, fascinated eyes.

"A biological replication of the Thorne intellect," Tesla whispered, treating the news exactly as Caleb had expected, like a magnificent scientific breakthrough. "Fascinating! Caleb, this is extraordinary! We must immediately begin designing an acoustically optimized nursery! The developmental frequencies of a child's brain are highly susceptible to ambient vibration. I can design a crib that mathematically nullifies negative acoustic interference!"

"We will start with a good coat of paint, Nikola, but I appreciate the enthusiasm," Caleb laughed, clapping the inventor on the back.

But as the days passed, Caleb's joy gave way to a cold, calculating paranoia.

He was a man who lived two lives. He remembered the modern world, and he knew exactly how primitive, dangerous, and utterly barbaric the medical standards of 1900 truly were. Maternal mortality rates were terrifying. Infections, sepsis, and a blatant disregard for microscopic hygiene killed thousands of women in childbirth every year.

Caleb was not going to leave his wife's survival up to the archaic whims of a local doctor who didn't wash his hands.

If he could drag the radio into existence, he could drag modern medicine with it.

He locked himself in his study for three days, utilizing the absolute, flawless recall of his Max Level Past Life Memory. He hadn't been a doctor or any medical expert whatsoever in his past life, but he was a modern human who had consumed countless hours of internet articles, documentaries, and basic historical science regarding the evolution of medicine.

He drafted massive, highly detailed internal memorandums. He couldn't magically synthesize modern, mass produced chemical antibiotics, he lacked the petroleum infrastructure and the chemical engineering framework required for true modern pharmaceuticals, but he knew about Penicillium mold. Alexander Fleming wouldn't discover it for another twenty eight years, but Caleb knew the basic concept.

He ordered the construction of a private, highly secure biological laboratory attached to the new hospital wing he was funding in Saint Denis. He hired the finest chemists and botanists money could buy, handing them crude, highly specific instructions to begin cultivating specific mold broths, aiming to extract crude topical antibacterial properties.

But more importantly, Caleb enacted militant protocols of antisepsis.

He used his Crafting Skill, standing over a blistering forge in the Thorne-Marlin factories, to personally machine a complete, flawless set of surgical instruments. He didn't use the standard carbon steel or the bacteria harboring wooden handles favored by the era's doctors. He forged them from smooth, continuous, high grade surgical stainless steel, ensuring there were zero microscopic crevices where bacteria could hide.

He drafted protocols for the doctors he placed on his private payroll, mandatory, rigorous hand washing with harsh carbolic acid solutions, the boiling of all surgical instruments in high pressure steam autoclaves (which he designed using his knowledge of locomotive boilers), and the wearing of sterile cloth masks and gloves.

He was effectively dragging the hygiene standards of the 1930s into 1900 through sheer force of will and bottomless capital. He would spare no expense, and he would tolerate absolutely zero risk when it came to Mary-Beth.

More than a week flew by in a blur of relentless activity.

The news of Mary-Beth's pregnancy could not be contained to the mansion. It spilled out into the streets of Saint Denis, and the city reacted as if a royal heir had been announced. The celebration was extravagant. The Mayor personally delivered a massive, custom carved mahogany crib to the mansion. The wealthy plantation owners, the shipping magnates, and the elite members of the Business Club flooded the Garden District with expensive gifts, solid silver rattles, imported silk blankets, and rare rocking horses.

But the news didn't stop at the state line. The telegraph wires carried the announcement north.

Telegrams of congratulations poured in from the most powerful men in the country. John Howard Marlin wired his profound joy from Connecticut. A massive bouquet of rare orchids arrived on a private train car from Henry Ford in Detroit. Even Washington responded. A thick, cream colored envelope arrived bearing the presidential seal, containing a handwritten note of warm congratulations from William McKinley, and a boisterous enthusiastic telegram from Theodore Roosevelt demanding they name the boy 'Theodore' if it was a son.

But the sheer visibility of the event triggered Caleb's ruthless defensive instincts.

Having an heir made him incredibly powerful, but it also made him vulnerable. He had enemies he hadn't even met yet, anarchists, rival industrialists, remnants of old banking cartels he had crushed, and desperate men looking to make a name for themselves.

Caleb pulled Vincenzo and Arthur into his study, shutting the heavy doors.

"The perimeter is no longer sufficient," Caleb ordered, his voice cold and absolute. "I want the security around this mansion doubled. No, tripled. I want men on the gates, men patrolling the gardens, and men watching the street corners. Nobody gets within a block of this house without us knowing exactly who they are and what they are carrying."

"I'll pull the best guns from the northern operations," Vincenzo nodded instantly, his face a mask of lethal seriousness. "I will stagger the shifts. The house will be a fortress."

"And if Mary-Beth leaves the grounds, she does not travel in an open carriage," Caleb added, looking at Arthur. "She travels in a closed coach, and you or John are in the seat across from her. Always."

"Nobody is getting near her, Caleb," Arthur promised, his voice low and firm. "You have my word."

With the fortress secured and his mind slightly at ease, Caleb finally allowed himself to return to the relentless machinery of the empire.

Later that week, Caleb sat at his desk, reviewing a heavy stack of correspondence. Among the corporate ledgers and political updates was a thick letter from Henry Ford.

Caleb broke the wax seal, scanning the pragmatic, blocky handwriting of the Detroit engineer.

"Mr. Thorne,

The congratulations of my entire family go out to you and your wife. It is a profound blessing.

Regarding the manufacturing lines in Detroit: The new electrical milling machines Mr. Tesla provided have revolutionized our output. The designs for the 'Model T' chassis are advancing rapidly. The suspension handles the uneven rural roads beautifully, and the engine block is stable. However, the transmission gearing still requires refinement to handle the torque. We need more time before we can hit the mass production quotas you demanded, but the vehicle is fundamentally sound. It will change the world."

Caleb smiled, pleased with the progress. He had expected the Model T to take time. He was accelerating history, but physics still required patience.

He was about to set the letter down when a hastily scribbled postscript at the bottom of the page caught his eye.

"P.S. As a man who appreciates mechanical lunacy, I thought you might find a rumor I heard from a bicycle parts supplier amusing. Apparently, there is a pair of brothers operating a small bicycle shop down in Dayton, Ohio. The Wright brothers. The supplier claims they are purchasing lightweight ash wood and specialized canvas, and shipping it all down to the sand dunes of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. The rumor is they are trying to build a motorized vehicle that can be flown through the air like a bird. Complete madness, of course, but it shows the American spirit of invention is alive and well."

Caleb stopped breathing.

The letter slipped from his fingers, landing softly on the polished mahogany desk.

He stared blankly at the far wall of the study, his mind reeling. The Wright brothers. Orville and Wilbur Wright.

'How the hell did I forget the Wright brothers?'

He mentally scrambled through his Past Life Memory, the timeline locking into place with terrifying clarity. It was late 1900. The Wright brothers were currently testing their unpowered gliders at Kitty Hawk. They were exactly three years away from mounting a crude aluminum engine to a wooden frame and achieving the first sustained, controlled, powered heavier than air flight in human history.

Henry Ford thought it was mechanical lunacy. Caleb knew it was the absolute future of human transportation, warfare, and global logistics.

If he controlled the radio, he controlled the airwaves. But if he controlled the airplane, he controlled the sky itself.

Caleb slowly stood up, placing both hands flat on his desk. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face, the sheer scale of the ambition burning away his fatigue. He had conquered the earth with bicycles, automobiles, and firearms. He had conquered the ether with Tesla's radio.

It was time to look up.

"Vincenzo!" Caleb shouted, his voice ringing through the quiet mansion.

The heavy doors to the study swung open a moment later, the underboss stepping inside, looking alert. "Don Thorne?"

"Pack a bag," Caleb ordered, his eyes shining with the intoxicating thrill of a new conquest. "And tell Hodea to prepare a massive liquid line of credit. We are taking a trip."

Vincenzo blinked, caught off guard. "A trip, sir? To Washington again?"

"No," Caleb smiled, grabbing his coat. "We are going to North Carolina. I need to buy a bicycle shop."

The heavy mahogany doors of the study clicked shut behind Caleb as he stepped out into the quiet, gas lit corridor of the mansion. His pulse was thrumming a steady, electric rhythm against his temples. The sheer, terrifying magnitude of the revelation Henry Ford had casually dropped in his postscript was still echoing through his mind.

He moved quickly through the house, his footsteps muffled by the thick Persian runners, until he reached the master suite.

He eased the bedroom door open. The room was warm, smelling faintly of the expensive jasmine perfume Mary-Beth favored. She was sitting up in the center of their massive, four poster bed, propped against a small mountain of down pillows. A velvet shawl was draped over her shoulders, and she was idly turning the pages of a thick, leather-bound novel, though her eyes looked heavy with the deep, bone-aching fatigue of the first trimester.

Caleb walked over, pulling a high backed chair to the side of the bed. He sat down, reaching out to gently take her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles.

Mary-Beth looked up, a soft, sleepy smile touching her lips. But her intuition, sharp as a razor even through the exhaustion, instantly picked up on the residual, burning energy radiating from him. The relaxed, doting husband who had carried her down the hall a week ago was suddenly vibrating with the intense, predatory focus of the industrialist.

"What is it, Caleb?" she asked softly, closing her book and setting it on the nightstand. "You look as though you've just figured out something very important and are giddy like a child, you wanted to get the moon?"

Caleb let out a low, breathless laugh. "Not the moon, sweetheart. But perhaps the sky."

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the crumpled letter from Henry Ford, smoothing the thick paper over his knee.

"I just received a production update from Detroit," Caleb explained, keeping his voice calm, though the excitement bled through the edges. "The automobile manufacturing is proceeding perfectly. But Henry added a note at the bottom. A rumor he heard from a parts supplier. There are two bicycle mechanics from Ohio who have packed up their shop and moved down to the sand dunes of North Carolina."

Mary-Beth frowned slightly, adjusting her shawl. "North Carolina? Why on earth would two mechanics move to there?"

"Because they are trying to build a machine that flies," Caleb said, looking directly into her eyes. "A motorized, heavier than air vehicle capable of sustained flight."

Mary-Beth blinked, her mind struggling to process the sheer absurdity of the concept. For a moment, she just stared at him. Then, a small, highly amused smile broke across her face.

"You mean... flying?" she asked, her tone laced with playful disbelief. "Like magic? Like the things we wrote about in the Harry Potter novels? The boys soaring over the castle on broomsticks, or that flying motorcar you had me draft in the second book?"

"Exactly like that," Caleb nodded, his expression completely, terrifyingly serious. "Only it isn't magic, Mary-Beth. It is aerodynamics. It is internal combustion combined with lift and drag. Ford thinks it is absolute mechanical lunacy, but I know it isn't. If these men are who I think they are, they are on the verge of cracking the physical code of human flight."

Mary-Beth's smile slowly faded as she realized he was not joking. The man sitting beside her had built firearms that fired continuously without long reloading time, forged invisible sound waves that carried voices across the continent, and funded carriages that moved without horses. If he believed men could fly, he was going to make it happen.

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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: -