If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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When Caleb, Hosea, and Strauss stepped inside, they found Hoolihan sitting behind a scarred wooden desk, cleaning the dirt from his fingernails with a heavy steel shipping hook. Hoolihan was a mountain of a man, with a face that looked like it had been repeatedly smashed with a brick and a thick, bristling red beard. He controlled the labor network responsible for moving practically every crate entering or leaving the ports of Manhattan and Brooklyn.
Caleb knew the stakes immediately. He intended to ship thousands of bicycles, heavy firearms, raw materials, and eventually heavy automotive machinery into New York. He could not afford to have his cargo mysteriously disappear, rot on the docks, or accidentally "fall into the harbor" because of a labor dispute.
Hoolihan didn't stand up when they entered. He didn't even look up from his fingernails.
"You're the Southern boys," Hoolihan grunted, his voice like gravel grinding in a cement mixer. "Pendleton says you got deep pockets. But lookin' at those fancy suits, I'm guessing you ain't ever done a hard day's work in your lives. This is a working man's dock, Thorne. You sure you didn't take a wrong turn looking for the opera?"
It was a blatant, deliberate test. Hoolihan was used to wealthy, arrogant outsiders walking into his office demanding respect, only to find themselves entirely powerless when the unions simply refused to unload their ships.
Caleb didn't flinch. He didn't offer a polite, aristocratic smile like he had with the Wall Street banker. He deliberately dropped the polished veneer, adapting instantly to the brutal environment.
Caleb walked forward, placing both hands flat on Hoolihan's desk, leaning down until he was eye to eye with the massive union boss.
"I didn't come here to talk about my suits, Mike," Caleb said, his voice dropping into a flat, blunt, and highly intimidating register. "And I didn't come here to pretend we're friends. I came here because I move a staggering amount of freight. Firearms. Bicycles. Industrial steel. And I need it moved from the hulls of those ships to my warehouses without a single crate going missing."
Hoolihan stopped cleaning his nails. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. "Accidents happen on the docks, Thorne. Sometimes crates get dropped. Sometimes the manifests get lost. Especially when outsiders think they can just waltz in and dictate terms to my boys."
"Accidents in my business," Caleb replied, his gaze cold and completely unwavering, "have a habit of being incredibly fatal to the people making them."
Hoolihan's grip tightened on the steel hook. The tension in the cramped room spiked instantly. Hosea remained perfectly still near the door, recognizing exactly what Caleb was doing, allowing the confrontation to develop without trying to smooth it over.
"You threatening my union, boy?" Hoolihan growled.
"I am offering you a choice," Caleb corrected him bluntly, standing up straight. "If you want to play games, I have enough armed men in this city to make unloading a ship a very hazardous profession. But if we do business... if my cargo is protected, moved honestly, and arrives without a single scratch... I will guarantee your union steady, long term contracts that pay twenty percent above the current waterfront rate."
Caleb let the numbers hang in the air.
"I am expanding into heavy industry, Mike," Caleb continued, his tone practical and hard. "In two years, I'll be moving more tonnage through these ports than Carnegie. You can fight me, and we can both bleed. Or you can move my freight, and your men will never have to worry about a dry week of pay again."
Hoolihan stared at Caleb for a long, heavy moment. He looked for any sign of fear, any hesitation, any weakness typical of the wealthy elite. He found absolutely none. Caleb was a man who understood violence just as well as he understood ledgers.
Suddenly, Hoolihan tossed the steel hook onto the desk. He let out a loud, booming bark of laughter.
"You got a set of brass ones on you, Thorne, I'll give you that," Hoolihan grinned, revealing a row of crooked teeth. He stood up, extending a massive, calloused hand. "Twenty percent above the standard rate. And my boys handle all the security from the hull to the wagons."
"Agreed," Caleb said, shaking the man's hand firmly.
"Your cargo is safe in New York, Mr. Thorne. Nobody touches a single crate without my say so."
They left the freezing, foul smelling docks with a highly practical, ironclad agreement. Caleb had earned Hoolihan's respect precisely because he hadn't acted frightened or overly polite.
After returning to the city center and taking a brief moment to change into fresh attire, Caleb, Hosea, and Strauss proceeded to their next appointment.
They arrived at the exclusive, fiercely private Union League Club to meet State Senator Julian Astor.
Astor was the polar opposite of Mike Hoolihan. He was a man deeply entrenched in the political elite of Albany, possessing perfectly manicured hands, silver hair, and a profound, overwhelming sense of vanity. He cared deeply about his legacy, his historical reputation, and how future generations of Americans would remember his name in the political annals. Caleb understood immediately that Astor needed to be stroked, not threatened.
Caleb wanted Astor as a political ally to fast-track corporate charters and defend his businesses if Thomas Edison, or any other entrenched industrialist, attempted to use lawsuits to crush him.
They found Astor sitting in a private, leather-bound reading room, sipping a glass of imported brandy.
"Don Thorne," Astor greeted him, a polite but distinctly superior smile on his face. "Senator Pendleton speaks highly of your financial... successes in the South. Please, sit."
Caleb took the seat opposite the Senator. He didn't offer a bribe. He offered a legacy.
"Senator Astor," Caleb began, his tone respectful, carrying the cadence of a fellow visionary. "I am not here to ask for political favors. I am here because I am looking for a statesman who actually understands that the twentieth century is already upon us."
Astor raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the flattery. "Go on."
"New York is being held hostage by men of the past," Caleb explained, leaning forward. "Men like Thomas Edison, who use armies of patent lawyers and state judges to stifle true innovation simply because they fear competition. I am building the future, Senator. I am expanding advanced firearms, bringing the Thorne Cycle to the masses, and I am currently funding technologies that will completely revolutionize how cities are powered and how people travel."
Caleb let his words sink in. "But I need an ally in Albany. A man who wants his name associated with the absolute forefront of American progress, rather than the corrupt stagnation of the old monopolies. If you support my corporate charters and shield my industries from Edison's frivolous lawsuits, history will not remember you as just another state politician. They will remember you as the architect of the new industrial age."
Astor took a slow sip of his brandy. He was practically glowing. The idea of being recognized as a grand, historical visionary stroked his ego perfectly.
"I have always believed that progress requires bold leadership," Astor agreed smoothly, leaning into Caleb's narrative. "Edison's legal tactics are... distasteful to the true spirit of commerce. I believe I could certainly assist in ensuring your corporate charters face no unnecessary delays in the state legislature."
Caleb smiled, knowing he had the man exactly where he wanted him. He then smoothly transitioned to a secondary, highly calculated objective.
"I appreciate that, Senator," Caleb said. "And as my operations expand in your state, I will need brilliant legal minds to represent my interests. I have a young, exceptionally talented attorney back in Saint Denis. His name is Pierre. He is sharp, but he lacks exposure to the broader, national political system. I was hoping that, in the future, he might have the opportunity to learn from a true statesman such as yourself."
Astor's chest puffed out slightly. The idea of mentoring a protégé from a rising billionaire's empire appealed to his vanity even further. It made him feel like a kingmaker.
"I would be more than happy to make introductions for your young lawyer when the time comes, Caleb," Astor smiled magnanimously. "A good mentor is hard to find in this city."
The meeting concluded flawlessly. Caleb left the private club having given Astor exactly what he wanted, the feeling of historical importance, while securing the state level political and legal shield he desperately needed to combat Edison's inevitable wrath.
Returning to the Waldorf-Astoria late that afternoon, Caleb, Hosea, and Strauss gathered in the war room.
The mood was victorious, but the tension was already beginning to mount for the final, looming obstacle.
"That's four down," Hosea noted, crossing Julian Astor's name off the chalkboard. "We have the banks, the police, the docks, and the state senate."
"Which leaves only one," Strauss murmured, looking at the final name on the list. "Alderman Richard 'Dickie' Vance. Tammany Hall."
Caleb took off his suit jacket, pouring himself a glass of water. He reviewed everything they knew about the corrupt ward boss. Vance was the gatekeeper to the physical city, the building permits, the electrical grid access, and the local zoning laws. If Caleb wanted to build a sprawling laboratory for Nikola Tesla, Vance could stop it by simply refusing to sign a piece of paper.
"He's not going to be impressed by money alone," Caleb reasoned, staring at the chalkboard. "He's used to dealing with desperate businessmen who either submit to the Tammany machine or negotiate from a position of profound weakness. I refuse to do either."
"He thinks he's a king because he controls a few blocks of tenement housing," Hosea warned. "He'll expect you to kiss his ring."
"I don't kiss rings, Hosea. I break them," Caleb said coldly. "I want cooperation, but Vance needs to understand that the Thorne Holding Company is already too large, and far too dangerous, to be pushed aside. Tomorrow, we don't ask for permission. We take the ward."
The anticipation for the confrontation was heavy in the room. Caleb was mentally preparing for the most difficult political fight of the expedition.
Meanwhile, deep in the frozen, soot stained labyrinth of lower Manhattan, a completely different kind of hunt was finally coming to an end.
John, Javier, and four of Caleb's most disciplined Italian capos were walking down a narrow, trash strewn alleyway. For four days, they had chased the ghost of the city's most brilliant, reclusive mind. Now, standing outside a dilapidated, brick warehouse that hummed faintly with a strange, rhythmic vibration, they had found him.
"This is it," John muttered, pulling his coat tight against the wind. He looked up at the frosted windows on the second floor. A faint, unnatural blue light flickered from within.
"Remember what Caleb said," Javier reminded the capos, stepping forward to open the heavy wooden door. "He's not a rival boss. He's a genius. No threatening. Keep your hands away from your guns, and act like respectable gentlemen."
The men dusted off their coats, adjusting their ties. They walked up the creaking wooden stairs, the humming sound growing louder, vibrating in their teeth.
John knocked firmly on the heavy iron door at the top of the landing.
For a long moment, there was no answer. Just the crackle of electricity. John knocked again, louder this time.
The door slowly creaked open.
Standing in the doorway was a tall, incredibly gaunt man with piercing, deep set eyes and a sharp, aristocratic mustache. He looked exhausted, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his hands stained with machine grease and copper dust. Behind him, the warehouse was a chaotic, mesmerizing jungle of massive copper coils, glass vacuum tubes, and scattered blueprints. A flock of pigeons cooed softly from a cage near the window.
Nikola Tesla looked at the men, his eyes instantly narrowing with deep, ingrained suspicion. He was used to Thomas Edison's thugs breaking into his workshops to smash his equipment, or impatient creditors coming to collect.
"I have nothing for you," Tesla said, his voice carrying a thick, precise Serbian accent. "If you are from the bank, tell them the alternating current patents will cover the debt next month. Leave my laboratory."
He tried to close the door, but John gently placed a hand against the wood, stopping it without using aggressive force.
"We ain't from the bank, Mr. Tesla," John said, keeping his voice incredibly calm and respectful. "And we ain't here to collect a debt."
Tesla paused, looking at the scarred, dangerous-looking men in expensive suits. "Then who are you? Spies for Edison?"
"We wouldn't spit on Edison if he was on fire," Javier offered with a charming, disarming smile. "We represent a gentleman from the South. His name is Caleb Thorne. He is an industrialist, an inventor, and a man of immense capital."
Tesla sighed, running a hand over his tired face. "Another businessman looking to steal my patents for pennies. Tell your Mr. Thorne I am not interested in selling my life's work to line his pockets."
"He doesn't want to steal your patents, sir," John clarified, speaking clearly and directly. "Mr. Thorne sent us to find you because he believes you are the most brilliant mind on this planet. He knows you are being suppressed. He wants to meet you personally, to discuss funding your scientific research. Completely. He wants to give you the resources, the laboratories, and the absolute freedom you need to pursue your ideas without ever having to worry about money or creditors again."
Tesla froze. The deep, defensive suspicion in his eyes fractured, replaced by a sudden, intense spark of genuine curiosity. For years, he had been fighting a losing battle against the monopolistic greed of the city, starved of the capital he needed to realize his dreams of wireless power.
"Absolute freedom?" Tesla murmured, the words sounding almost foreign to him. He looked at John, analyzing the sincerity in the man's face.
"A blank check, Mr. Tesla," John confirmed softly. "He just wants a meeting."
Tesla stood in the doorway for a long time, the electrical coils humming behind him. Finally, the eccentric genius stepped back, opening the door just a fraction wider.
"Tell your Mr. Thorne," Tesla said, his voice quiet but trembling with cautious hope, "that I am available tomorrow evening."
An hour later, John and Javier walked into the Waldorf-Astoria, bringing the news directly to the war room.
Caleb listened to John's report, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face. The grueling legwork had paid off. The pieces were finally converging perfectly.
Caleb looked out the window at the glittering, chaotic expanse of New York City. Tomorrow, he would face down the corrupt machinery of Tammany Hall in the most difficult political fight of his life. But knowing that Nikola Tesla, the key to the technological future of the 20th century, was finally within his reach, Caleb felt absolutely invincible.
The following morning, Caleb prepared for what he knew would be the most politically sensitive and hazardous meeting of his time in New York.
Standing before the towering, gilded mirror in his dressing room, he selected his attire with the utmost care. This was not a day for the subdued elegance of a banker or the rugged practicality of the docks. He chose a bespoke, double breasted suit of deep, midnight blue wool, woven with a faint, imperceptible silver thread that caught the light.
He paired it with a pristine white shirt, a dark silk tie, and a silver pocket watch chained to his waistcoat. His appearance was a weapon in itself, a physical manifestation of his status as a staggeringly wealthy industrialist and a rising national magnate.
Before leaving the suite, he met with Hosea and Strauss in the hallway. Both men were dressed impeccably, mirroring Caleb's aura of high level authority.
"Keep the carriage waiting at the curb," Caleb instructed them, adjusting his cuffs. "I will handle the talking, but I want both of you in the room. Stay alert. If the temperature changes, be ready to pivot at a moment's notice."
"We've got your back, Caleb," Hosea assured him, his eyes sharp.
As they rode the elevator down to the lobby, Caleb leaned against the mahogany paneling, his mind turning inward. He was silently analyzing the limits of his own capabilities, specifically the incredible power of his maxedvout Persuasion Skill.
He knew from years of experience that his persuasion was a terrifyingly effective tool, capable of bending negotiations and charming hostile adversaries. But he was also a supreme realist. Persuasion was not magic. It could not simply rewrite the fundamental nature of a man's soul.
A person consumed by an enormous ego, entrenched in generations of corrupt power, and driven by a ravenous desire for money could still resist him. Richard "Dickie" Vance was exactly that kind of man.
Caleb recalled the intelligence Pendleton had provided. Vance was a senior ward boss within the Tammany Hall machine. He was corrupt, greedy, and fiercely territorial, but his influence was absolute.
He controlled the veins of the city, the building permits, the municipal approvals, the zoning boards, and critical access to the electrical grid. If Caleb intended to build sprawling laboratories for Tesla, massive distribution warehouses for the Thorne Cycle, or heavy manufacturing plants on the river, he could not afford to have Dickie Vance throwing bureaucratic sand into his gears. 'He has no loyalty to anything but the dollar,' Pendleton had warned. 'Rent him, do not trust him.'
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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: -