In a secret room of the Intelligence Department in New York, a few gas lamps emitted a dim, yellow light.
Three telegraph machines ticked away in the corner.
Timmy sat in front of a scratched wooden desk, a cigarette unlit in his mouth.
Holding a pencil, he was writing a string of garbled code consisting of numbers and letters on a specialized encryption paper.
Timmy handed the completed coded paper to a telegraph operator nearby.
"Send this to the Vienna branch via the Metropolitan Trading Company's merchant shipping line. Highest priority," Timmy ordered his subordinate.
The telegraph operator took the note, his fingers tapping rapidly on the brass telegraph key.
The electrical signal traveled through the submarine cable, crossing the vast Atlantic Ocean.
...
Two days later.
Austro-Hungarian Empire, Vienna.
In the basement of a tavern called "The Black Eagle" in the inner city.
The air here was filled with the smell of ale and moldy wood. A man wearing a thick wool coat and a bushy beard was holding a magnifying glass, using the light of a kerosene lamp to translate the telegram he had just received.
His name was Klaus.
Ostensibly a tavern owner, he was actually the head of the Argyle Family's intelligence hub in Eastern Europe.
"What the hell? Searching for a youth... Nikola Tesla... fourteen to sixteen years old... Serbian descent... father is an Orthodox priest..."
Klaus muttered the translated contents.
He put down the magnifying glass, his brows furrowed.
"Are they crazy in New York? Using the highest priority line just to find some country kid from the Balkans?"
Although filled with doubts, Klaus knew the rules of Argyle.
An order was an order, not to be questioned.
He walked to a locked iron cabinet, took out several stacks of Austro-Hungarian Krone and Franc banknotes, and stuffed them into the inner pocket of his coat.
He called over the tavern's bartender, a one-eyed war veteran.
"Close the tavern for three days; I need to take a trip to the south," Klaus instructed.
Klaus put on his coat and gave his orders.
"Go to the station and buy me a train ticket to Agram (now Zagreb, the capital of Croatia). While you are at it, contact our informant in Karlovac. Tell them to inquire about all the Orthodox priests in the nearby villages and towns. Focus on investigating families with boys aged fourteen or fifteen."
"Tell those informants that money is no object. As long as they find the right person, I will pay one hundred Krone for every valuable lead provided."
Klaus pushed open the secret door of the basement and stepped into the cold night rain of Vienna.
A transnational search for the future God of Electricity quietly cast its wide net across this ancient land.
...
At the same time.
America, Ithaca, New York.
On the campus of Cornell University, the trees were lush and shaded.
Heinrich White and Timmy walked side by side on a path paved with bluestone.
Timmy was wearing a low-key gray suit and a bowler hat, looking like an ordinary businessman.
"Are you sure this man can replace Edison?" Timmy asked as they walked.
"Probably? I have read his published papers on acoustic resonance and multiplex telegraph transmission in several academic journals. His theoretical foundation is even more solid than Edison's."
White was carrying a briefcase.
"Professor Richard Colton. He was once a senior researcher in the laboratory of Samuel Morse (the inventor of the telegraph). However, after Morse died, he came to Cornell to teach."
"Can a mere schoolteacher build a telephone switchboard?" Timmy expressed his doubts.
"Oh no, my friend, he is not just a schoolteacher. He built a massive mechanical model in his backyard. I heard he has been trying to solve the problem of how hundreds of telegraph lines can connect to a central hub simultaneously without interfering with each other. This is the same principle as a telephone switchboard."
The two walked to the end of a red-brick teaching building and pushed open a wooden door with a sign that read "Applied Physics and Acoustics Laboratory."
The room was in disarray.
The blackboard was covered with complex circuit diagrams and sound wave frequency curves.
The table was piled with coils, batteries, and brass relays.
A man with graying hair, wearing a white shirt washed to a yellowish hue, was wearing reading glasses and using a soldering iron to solder a copper wire thinner than a human hair.
"Professor Colton?" White asked out loud.
The man put down the soldering iron, raised his head, and peered through his lenses at the two uninvited guests.
"Who are you? If you were sent by the university board to collect the laboratory rent, tell them that I will pay it as soon as my next month's salary is issued."
Professor Colton's tone was somewhat impatient.
"Sorry, we are not from the board."
White stepped forward and placed a business card on the table.
"General Electric, Heinrich White."
Colton picked up the business card and glanced at it.
"General Electric. Oh, I see. That company that is putting up utility poles everywhere in New York. Why are you looking for me? I don't have the blueprints for the heavy generators you need here."
"We need something more refined than generators, Professor."
White pulled over a chair and sat down familiarly.
"We understand that you have in-depth research in the field of multiplex signal parallel transmission, and now our company has a project that has stalled."
White took out the blueprints from his briefcase.
It was the half-finished sketch of a telephone switchboard that Edison had drawn before he left.
"We are researching long-distance sound transmission; point-to-point communication has already been achieved. But if we want one thousand people to be able to talk to any of the other nine hundred and ninety-nine people at any time, we need a hub. A machine capable of quickly switching lines."
Colton's gaze was immediately drawn to the sketch.
He grabbed the blueprints, his reading glasses almost pressed against the paper.
"Matrix switching for sound wave analog currents..."
Colton muttered to himself, his fingers sliding along the lines on the blueprints.
"Using electromagnetic relays to form a crossbar switch. The concept is ingenious, but the mechanical structure is too complex, and the contact design here will cause serious signal crosstalk."
Colton looked up.
"The person who drew these blueprints is a genius, but he probably doesn't understand acoustic filtering well. He hasn't solved the noise problem of current resonance."
"The person who drew the blueprints has already resigned, Professor."
Timmy interjected suddenly from the side.
"Now, this position is vacant."
Colton put down the blueprints and looked at them.
"So you want to hire me?"
At this, Colton gave a wry smile.
"Gentlemen, to be honest, my research requires buying a large amount of silver contacts and high-purity copper wire. Cornell University's funding won't even approve a few cans of acid. How much are you willing to pay for a machine that doesn't even have a shadow of existence yet?"
White and Timmy exchanged a glance.
White opened the compartment of his briefcase and took out the Imperial Bank checkbook and an employment contract stamped with an official seal.
"Professor, you don't need to worry about funding."
White pushed the employment contract over.
"An annual salary of fifteen thousand dollars, and the Argyle Central Laboratory will allocate a separate building for you to serve as the Acoustic Communications Institute. The initial R&D budget is one hundred thousand dollars. All the materials you need will be shipped to the New Jersey warehouse by the Metropolitan Trading Company from all over the world within one week."
Colton's breathing quickened.
An annual salary of fifteen thousand dollars and a budget of one hundred thousand dollars—in the academic world of 1870, this could absolutely be called a massive investment.
"What are the conditions?"
Colton's voice was a bit tense.
"It's very simple: put down these pieces of junk you have here at the university. Come with us immediately."
Timmy stepped forward and placed his hand on the desktop.
"We are not just going to build a switchboard. We are going to weave the communication network across the entire North Sea before that guy in Boston named Bell can roll out his telephone."
"Once this thing is built, how many people can it connect?" Colton stared at White.
"Everyone, wherever there are wires," White replied.
Colton took a deep breath.
He took off his reading glasses and shoved them haphazardly into his pocket.
"I understand..."
While Timmy and his group were taking action.
The first transformer manufacturing factory for Westinghouse Electric in Pittsburgh broke ground on the banks of the Allegheny River, less than five miles from the steel mill.
Thomas Edison stood at the construction site of the new factory, wearing a clean windbreaker. George Westinghouse stood beside him.
Westinghouse was a robust man with a walrus mustache. He looked at the busy bricklayers on the site, his face glowing with excitement.
"Thomas, Mr. Morgan's funding is very generous. The factory building will be capped off next month."
Westinghouse handed Edison a cigar.
"All the money I earned from railway brakes has also been invested here. When will your final blueprints for the Alternating Current transformer be ready?"
Edison took the cigar but did not light it, only looking at the steel mill chimneys in the distance.
"The core iron core closed magnetic circuit is still calculating the loss rate. The difficulty with Alternating Current lies in the insulation during step-up and step-down. If the insulation isn't done well, tens of thousands of volts of high-voltage electricity will blow the entire transformer into a fireball."
Edison frowned.
"Don't be under pressure, buddy, take your time."
Westinghouse patted the young man on the shoulder.
"Argyle's Direct Current can only be laid in densely populated places like New York. Once we get our high-voltage Alternating Current working, we can build power stations at Niagara Falls and send electricity to any factory hundreds of miles away."
Edison nodded.
He knew this was his only chance to defeat Felix.
"However," Westinghouse lowered his voice, "the situation with Carnegie is not looking good."
"What's wrong? Isn't Mr. Morgan constantly giving him blood transfusions?"
Edison asked curiously, although he rarely cared about the outside world.
But he still knew that a guy named Carnegie was fighting Lex for clients.
"There's no helping it, Argyle's methods are too dirty."
Westinghouse exhaled a puff of smoke.
"He had the Imperial Bank offer low-interest loans directly to those railway companies, stealing almost all of Carnegie's orders. Carnegie is now relying on mortgaging bonds at low prices to Drexel in exchange for cash. Although the blast furnaces haven't stopped, the rails produced are piling up in the warehouse unsold. He's burning money every day."
Edison sneered.
"Carnegie is just a rough iron-smelter. He doesn't understand finance. Argyle is attacking him with banks; what does he have to fight back with?"
"Mr. Morgan sent a telegram yesterday."
Westinghouse looked around to make sure there were no bystanders.
"He ordered that all steel for our Westinghouse Electric factory construction must be purchased from Carnegie. It's considered a disguised blood transfusion for him, what they call strategic synergy."
Edison put the cigar in his mouth and struck a match.
"That's no problem. After all, with Carnegie taking the front, we can develop more calmly. Once my Alternating Current grid is laid out, I will definitely purchase his steel towers in large quantities."
...
New York, top floor office of the Empire State Building.
Felix leaned back in his leather chair, listening to Timmy's report on the start of construction at Westinghouse Electric.
"Boss, Edison and George Westinghouse have joined forces. They are currently building the factory. They have started recruiting mechanics from Pittsburgh," Timmy stood in front of the desk.
"Additionally, Carnegie has received the building steel order from Westinghouse Electric, barely catching his breath. Old Morgan has tied them together on the same rope."
"Ants on the same rope."
Felix opened a document that had just been delivered.
"Westinghouse Electric wants to do Alternating Current, Carnegie wants to sell steel. Old Morgan wants to build a heavy industrial ecosystem in North America that is independent of my control."
Felix looked up, interested.
"On White's side, has Professor Colton been settled in?"
"Arrived in New Jersey yesterday afternoon," Timmy replied.
"He is a workaholic. As soon as he entered the laboratory, he demanded that all electromagnetic relays be replaced with pure silver contacts. He said that only the conductivity and anti-oxidation properties of pure silver can solve the noise problem of current crosstalk. The Metropolitan Trading Company is already allocating silver."
"Very dedicated." Felix closed the document.
"Technically, as long as you are willing to throw money at it, there is no barrier that cannot be broken."
Felix walked to the map.
Originally, it only had red pins representing General Electric in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia.
Now, these red pins were spreading inland.
"By the way Edward, how is the grain business Hayes and Bill are doing in Chicago?"
Felix suddenly asked Frost, who was to the side.
"The war reports from Europe are updated every day."
Frost took out a copy.
"The France army suffered a crushing defeat at the border. Napoleon III's command is a mess. Prussia's Smokeless Powder rifles have caused huge casualties to the French. Panic over material shortages has started to appear in Paris."
"Buyers from London have already run to the Chicago exchange with gold, wanting to buy the winter wheat in our hands. Mr. Hayes is still following your instructions and holding back from selling, waiting for the price to continue to rise."
A cold glint flashed in Felix's eyes.
"Tell Hayes. Start releasing goods slowly next week. Don't crash the market all at once. Release a little every day to make those buyers bid against each other for grain. Squeeze the profits dry."
Felix then turned around.
"The more blood flows in Europe, the fuller our treasury becomes. With this money, what Westinghouse Electric, what Carnegie Steel. In the face of absolute financial crushing, they are all paper fortresses."
"Timmy, is there any news from Vienna?"
"Yes, Klaus sent a secret telegram. Their people have arrived in Smiljan village in Croatia. There is indeed an Orthodox priest there, named Milutin. He has a fourteen-year-old son named Nikola Tesla. The child is studying in a nearby school, and it is said he can solve calculus with mental arithmetic."
Timmy reported truthfully upon hearing this.
Felix's breath hitched slightly; he really found him.
That young man who would be able to control lightning with his bare hands in the future.
"Then let Klaus take action immediately."
Felix's voice became extremely stern.
"Take enough francs and gold bars to see that priest. Use the name of a charity scholarship to secure that child for me. If local officials block it, use money to smash it. If money can't solve it, make them shut up forever."
"Absolutely do not let anyone, especially Old Morgan's people, notice the existence of this child."
"I want to lock the future of Alternating Current in Argyle's safe."
"Understood, boss. I will go to Europe personally to supervise."
Timmy saluted and exited the office.
Outside the window, a summer thunderstorm in New York suddenly arrived.
Several blinding flashes of lightning tore through the gray sky, followed by deafening thunder.
Felix watched the factories still glowing with electric lights in the thunderstorm from the window.
War, technology, capital.
These three forces were weaving into an invisible giant net in his hands.
And he was sitting steadily in the center of the net, waiting for all the prey to throw themselves into the trap.
The carriage wheels sank into a mud pit, emitting a dull, sticky sound.
Timmy pushed open the carriage door and stepped into the ankle-deep mud. He turned up his coat collar to block the damp, cold mountain wind peculiar to the Balkan Peninsula.
This was the village of Smiljan in the Lika region of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. There were no masonry buildings reaching toward the clouds like in New York, only low wooden houses, dirt roads reeking of livestock manure, and the towering steeple of an Orthodox church in the distance.
Klaus, the head of the Vienna branch, jumped down from the carriage after him. He carried a heavy leather briefcase in his hand.
"That is the church ahead, Mr. Timmy." Klaus pointed forward.
"Reverend Milutin and his family live in the wooden house behind the church."
Timmy pulled his leather boots out of the deep mud and walked forward.
"Remember the rules clearly, Klaus," Timmy instructed as he walked.
"We are representatives of the Argyle Charitable Foundation. We are here to find gifted children. Do not mention arms, Wall Street, or anything related to electrical monopolies. These clergymen are very wary of businessmen."
Klaus nodded; he understood this very well.
The two crossed the empty graveyard in front of the church and arrived in front of the wooden house at the back.
Klaus stepped forward and knocked on the wooden door with the back of his hand.
After three knocks, the door opened shortly thereafter.
A tall man with a thick, graying beard stood in the doorway. He wore a faded black Orthodox cassock with a cross hanging on his chest. His eyes swept over the two strangers with a scrutinizing gaze.
"Lost travelers?" Reverend Milutin spoke in German with a thick Serbian accent.
Klaus took off his hat and bowed slightly.
"Father Milutin, we are not lost. We have come specifically for you."
Klaus stepped aside to let Timmy through.
"This is Mr. Timmy. He is from New York, United States of America. He represents the Argyle Family Charitable Foundation."
Milutin's brow furrowed. He didn't know any Argyle, and America felt as distant to him as another planet.
"I do not accept missionary sponsorship from America. This is an Orthodox parish." Milutin prepared to close the door.
Timmy reached out and braced the doorframe. His movement was not fast, but his strength was immense.
"We are not here to discuss theology, Father."
Timmy switched to fluent German, a language he had mastered under the mandatory requirements of the Intelligence Department.
"Nikola Tesla—I have come for him."
Upon hearing his son's name, Milutin's eyes instantly became guarded.
"Why are you looking for Nikola?"
"Rest assured, it is to let him receive the best education in the world."
Timmy lowered his hand and stepped back half a step, maintaining a non-aggressive, safe distance.
"Father, shall we not go inside to talk? The wind outside is not good for your joints."
Milutin was silent for a moment. He looked at Timmy's well-tailored suit and the finely crafted leather case in Klaus's hand. Finally, he stepped aside, opening a path.
The light inside the wooden house was dim, and the furnishings were simple but clean.
A woman in a coarse cloth skirt was boiling soup by the stove. That was Nikola's mother, Duka.
"Sit."
Milutin pointed to two long wooden benches beside the dining table.
Timmy and Klaus sat down.
Duka brought two cups of hot water, placed them in front of them, and then retreated to the stove, watching them warily.
"Speak, American."
Milutin sat at the head of the table, crossing his hands on the tabletop.
"Father, our foundation is dedicated to searching globally for youths with extremely high mathematical and scientific talent." Timmy got straight to the point.
"Through our academic network in Vienna, we learned of Nikola's performance at the secondary school. He can directly deduce complex calculus formulas in his mind; this is an extremely rare talent."
A flash of pride crossed Milutin's face, but it was quickly replaced by stubborn seriousness.
"Nikola is indeed smart, but he does not need your sponsorship." Milutin refused flatly.
"After Daniel died, he became the eldest son in the family. I have already arranged his future. After graduating from middle school, he will enter the seminary to become a priest, dedicating his life to God just like me."
Timmy picked up the water cup to warm his hands.
"Forgive me... Father. To let a brain capable of explaining the laws of the universe with mathematical formulas recite scriptures from centuries ago—this is the murder of talent."
"Watch your language! Young man!"
Milutin slammed the table, his voice echoing in the wooden house.
"This is blasphemy against God!"
"I am only stating facts."
Timmy put down the water cup and looked directly at the angry father.
"Father, you preach in this village; how many souls can you save? One hundred? Two hundred?"
Timmy pointed toward the door.
"In New York, my boss is using copper wires to deliver electricity to thousands of households. He makes the night as bright as day. He spares factory workers from having their bones crushed by heavy machinery. His factories have saved tens of thousands of lives. And all of this relies on physics and mathematics, not scripture."
Duka stopped what she was doing by the fire. She was a woman who had never attended school but possessed an extremely high memory and talent for handicrafts. She interrupted her husband's anger.
"Where do you want to take him?" Duka asked.
"The best polytechnic institutes in Europe."
Timmy turned to look at the mother.
"Graz University of Technology or the University of Prague, whichever he chooses. Our foundation will cover all tuition and accommodation fees. We will provide a generous monthly living allowance. After graduation, the Argyle Family has the largest Central Laboratory in the United States in New York, which will open its doors to him. It is written clearly in the contract."
Milutin shook his head.
"I don't believe it. A businessman's money is never given for free. What is it that you actually want?"
Timmy gestured, and Klaus placed the leather briefcase on the dining table. He flicked the latch, and the lid sprang open.
Inside were neat rows of gold bars and bundles of Austro-Hungarian Krone. The golden light appeared extremely dazzling in the dim wooden house.
Milutin and Duka's breathing paused for a second simultaneously; they had never seen so much money in their entire lives.
"This is five thousand Krone in cash, plus two hundred ounces of gold." Timmy pushed the briefcase toward Milutin.
"This is a 'deposit' for sponsoring Nikola's education. Father, I know your family's financial situation. This money is enough for you to renovate the church, and Mrs. Duka can buy the best fabrics; it is enough for you to live out your old age in comfort."
Timmy looked at Milutin.
"As for what my boss wants? He wants that in ten years, when Nikola returns from his studies, his first employer's name will be Argyle. This is called a preliminary investment."
Milutin stared at the gold bars. Although he was a devout priest, he was also a man who needed to support his family. The church roof had been leaking for two years, and he had begged for alms everywhere but could not raise enough money for repairs.
Just as the scales in Milutin's heart began to tip, the back door of the wooden house was pushed open.