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(A/N: Also everyone I have a new novel a Dragon Age Inquisition novel named "From Couch To The Inquisitor", be sure to check it out and give some power stone)
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"Halsted is furious, but he's listening," Vincenzo chuckled. "The surgeon is an egomaniac, but he respects Howell. Now that he knows Howell is designing the curriculum, Halsted sent a telegraph to our shell company asking for a secondary review of the surgical theater blueprints. He wants to ensure his operating rooms are exactly to his specifications. If we give him the tiles and the autoclaves, he's ours."
"Give him whatever he wants," Caleb said instantly. "If he wants gold plated scalpels, buy them. What about Welch? The pathologist who outright rejected us?"
"That's the most interesting development," Hosea chimed in, leaning against the edge of the mahogany desk, swirling his bourbon. "The agents in Baltimore say Welch is beginning to waver. He was incredibly loyal to the university, but he and Howell were close colleagues. When Howell walked away, he didn't just leave a vacancy; he left a massive, glaring indictment of the university's refusal to fund modern research. Welch is suddenly realizing that if he stays, he might be left behind in the dark ages while the real science happens down here."
"It still needs time, Boss," Vincenzo cautioned. "Welch is a proud man. He needs a lot more convincing. We can't push him too hard, or he'll dig his heels in out of pure stubbornness."
Caleb nodded slowly, his mind analyzing the psychological chessboard. "You are right. We let the silence do the work. Let him sit in his underfunded laboratory in Baltimore and wonder what Howell is building with a blank check in Louisiana. But we must control the narrative."
Caleb locked eyes with Vincenzo, his expression hardening into absolute steel.
"Johns Hopkins and their financial backers cannot know that it was Caleb Thorne who poached their Dean," Caleb instructed, his voice low and dangerous. "Not yet. If the eastern medical establishment realizes that a southern industrialist is actively raiding their entire brain trust, they will panic. They will throw massive amounts of counter funding at Halsted and Welch to keep them, or worse, they will try to use federal political pressure to freeze our medical licensing."
"The paper trail is completely buried, Caleb," Hosea assured him quietly. "Pierre routed all the contracts through three different philanthropic shell trusts registered in Delaware. To the board at Hopkins, Howell resigned to join a highly classified, independently funded medical research initiative. The name 'Thorne' is nowhere on the official Baltimore correspondence."
"Keep it that way," Caleb ordered, finishing his drink and setting the heavy crystal glass down on the desk with a definitive thud. "Until the physical doors of the hospital open and our doctors are standing inside, we operate as ghosts in the academic world. Keep up the pressure on Flexner and Smith, cater to Halsted's ego, and let Welch stew. We are going to bleed them dry of their genius."
For the next several days, the Thorne empire settled into a relentless, highly productive rhythm, operating on multiple, massive fronts simultaneously.
Caleb divided his time with ruthless efficiency. His mornings were spent in the swamps with Nikola Tesla, standing behind the thick, lead lined safety glass as the towering, copper sheathed Wardenclyffe prototype blasted millions of volts of raw purple electricity into the corrugated iron roof of the laboratory.
They were fine tuning the primary resonance frequencies, mapping the complex atmospheric variables required to bounce a localized radio signal off the ionosphere. The physical toll was exhausting, the smell of ozone permanently clinging to Caleb's clothes, but the mathematical progress they were making was staggering.
His early afternoons were dedicated to the Lemoyne aviation testing grounds, where he stood in the howling coastal winds alongside the Wright brothers. The second iteration of the flyer, built entirely of Thorne's lightweight tubular steel and powered by the revolutionary fuel injected aluminum block, was rapidly taking shape. They were no longer designing a machine to hop over the grass; they were designing a machine to pierce the clouds.
But no matter how heavy the demands of his industrial empire became, the late afternoons and evenings belonged exclusively to Mary-Beth.
Caleb would return to the mansion, wash the grease and electricity from his hands, and completely surrender to the quiet, grounded reality of his growing family. They spent hours walking through the sprawling gardens, discussing the future, reading together in the sunroom, and simply existing in the peaceful, fortified sanctuary they had built.
During these quiet days, Caleb also established a routine with Dr. Howell. Two evenings a week, the brilliant physiologist would arrive at the Thorne estate. They would sit in the heavy leather chairs of the study, sipping premium bourbon, and engage in deeply profound, exhausting medical and scientific debates.
Caleb utilized his Past Life Memory with terrifying precision during these meetings. He didn't simply hand Howell the answers of the future; he carefully led the doctor toward them using the Socratic method, planting seeds of modern cellular biology, advanced immunology, and the fundamental concepts of antibiotics.
They mapped out a revolutionary medical curriculum that integrated microscopic pathology directly into clinical diagnoses, completely upending the archaic, symptom based medicine of 1900. Howell would leave these meetings practically vibrating with academic adrenaline, racing back to his estate to draft entirely new syllabus structures.
Simultaneously, the physical manifestation of their theories was rising rapidly from the Louisiana mud.
The Thorne Medical Institute surged from fifty percent completion to a staggering seventy five percent. The massive, multi story brick facades were entirely finished. The sprawling, high ceilinged surgical pavilions had been completely lined with the seamless, non porous white ceramic tiles Caleb had demanded.
Down in the cavernous basements, the heavy iron steam boilers were successfully connected to the intricate network of high pressure autoclaves, transforming the building into a fortress of absolute biological sterility.
It was during one of these quiet, triumphant evenings that the outside world violently reasserted its presence.
Caleb and Mary-Beth were sitting comfortably in the private study. A soft fire cracked in the hearth, casting a warm, flickering glow across the room. Mary-Beth was curled up in a plush armchair, reading a novel, while Caleb was casually reviewing a set of foundries ledgers at his desk.
Suddenly, the heavy, highly classified T&T radio receiver sitting on the corner of the mahogany desk hummed to life. The vacuum tubes glowed a bright, urgent orange, and the heavy static of a long-distance atmospheric relay filled the quiet room.
"Saint Denis, this is Executive Mansion," a sharp, familiar female voice crackled through the metal speaker mesh. "Do you read, Boss?"
Caleb instantly dropped his fountain pen. The relaxed husband vanished, replaced by the geopolitical strategist. He reached across the desk, grabbing the heavy iron microphone, and flipped the transmission toggle.
"I read you loud and clear, Sadie," Caleb answered, his voice steady. "What is the situation in Washington?"
Mary-Beth lowered her book, her eyes fixing on the radio. She knew Sadie was currently standing directly behind the desk of President William McKinley, acting as Caleb's personal eyes, ears, and bodyguard in the highest echelons of global power.
"The powder keg just blew, Caleb," Sadie's voice echoed through the room, laced with a grim, high stakes tension. "The war against the Qing dynasty has officially escalated. We just received the news from the Pacific fleet. The Eight Nation Alliance army has made landfall. They are heavily armed, they are advancing rapidly, and they have begun to actively push back the Boxer rebellion forces. It's a slaughter over there."
Caleb's jaw tightened. The Boxer Rebellion had reached its historical climax. The violent, anti foreign uprising in China had finally given the colonial empires of the world the exact excuse they needed to land heavy infantry on Asian soil.
"What is the position of the United States military?" Caleb asked sharply, his mind instantly analyzing the tactical board.
"We are leading the charge," Sadie confirmed, the static popping loudly. "American Marines and infantry detachments are spearheading the advance alongside the British and the Japanese. But McKinley of course uphold the plan that you have given him. The generals have of course bene ordered to fight the Boxers, but simultaneously, he has ordered the diplomatic corps to push for continuous, open communication with the Qing dynasty government. He is actively trying to fight a war on their soil while ensuring that we aren't invading them."
"That's good, McKinley are following the plan ta least or some form of the plan, then was else," Caleb says, knowing that they are entering at another level of history.
"Exactly," Sadie replied, her voice dropping into a lower, more conspiratorial tone, indicating she was passing along highly classified, overheard intelligence. "I was standing behind his chair during a closed door meeting with Secretary of State Hay this morning. They achieved a massive breakthrough. France and England have officially agreed with McKinley's proposal. They are throwing their full diplomatic weight behind the Open Door policy."
Caleb let out a slow, heavy breath, a profound sense of strategic victory washing over him. The geopolitical architecture he had personally advised McKinley to adopt was actually holding together.
"Explain the situation more detailed, Sadie," Caleb requested, wanting to hear how the capital was interpreting the maneuver. "Why did London and Paris fold?"
"Because they are greedy, but they aren't stupid, just like what you have suggested in the plan Caleb," Sadie scoffed through the radio. "From what Hay was saying, France and England with their massive colonial empires stretching across the globe, doesn't their interest to be threatened by Japan and Russia. They don't want the financial and military nightmare of seeing Russia and Japan conquer and administer massive swaths of Chinese territory. They realized that your Open Door concept, keeping the country intact but forcing free, unhindered trade concessions, is the absolute best way to protect their interest, extract the wealth, and without paying for the blood."
"It is pure, ruthless capitalism," Caleb agreed, his eyes entirely cold. "It is far cheaper to build a railroad and a bank than it is to garrison a standing army in a hostile nation."
"But as expected, it cause a massive tension," Sadie continued, the urgency in her voice rising. "McKinley, Britain, and France now forming a unified block, of cours2 actively using it to put extreme diplomatic pressure on the other four nations in the alliance. Specifically, Russia and Japan."
Caleb leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Of course it's like that. After all, no one wanted the two countries who shared borders get the land, expanding their territory and power to a while new level."
"Exactly," Sadie confirmed grimly. "Russia wants to permanently annex Manchuria to secure a warm water port, and Japan wants to carve out a massive buffer zone in the Korean peninsula and northern China to secure their own empire. They are furious that America is stepping in and telling them they can't take the territory they are currently bleeding to conquer. The ambassadors from St. Petersburg and Tokyo were screaming at Hay yesterday. The alliance is holding together to fight the Boxers, but the moment the rebellion is crushed, these nations are going to turn on each other. It's a hair trigger away from a global war."
Caleb processed the intelligence. Now, due to his interference, the world was standing on the precipice of a possible massive industrialized conflict, which was decades before the historical outbreak of the First World War and could possible become one.
"What is the response from the Qing government?" Caleb asked, seeking the final piece of the puzzle. "Are they recognizing McKinley's attempt to save their borders?"
"It's a complete mess internally there form what I heard, Caleb," Sadie sighed, the frustration of the American diplomats bleeding into her report. "Hay received a top classified back channel cable from the Qing Emperor. The Emperor sent a formal thank you to the United States for spearheading the Open Door policy and actively preventing the European powers from partitioning his country. He understands that McKinley is the only thing standing between his empire and total colonization."
"But?" Caleb prompted, knowing there was a catch.
"But the Emperor doesn't have absolute control of his own house," Sadie explained rapidly. "There are massive, highly conservative factions within the Qing government, the ones who originally backed the Boxers, who vehemently oppose any foreign intervention, even if it's to save their borders. They are causing massive internal chaos, trying to undermine the Emperor's authority while the foreign armies are marching on Peking."
"So the Emperor sent a private apology to Washington," Sadie concluded, the raw political calculus of the move evident in her voice. "He basically told McKinley that he is deeply sorry for the violence, but he is going to use this exact moment, while the foreign armies are crushing the Boxers, to clean up his own government. He is going to let the Eight-Nation Alliance slaughter his internal political enemies, consolidate his power, and then rely on America to force the Europeans out when the dust settles."
Caleb sat back in his leather chair, a slow, dark smile spreading across his face. It was a masterpiece of Machiavellian politics on a global scale. The Qing Emperor was using the invading armies as an extermination force to purge his own treasonous factions, while using American diplomacy as a shield to protect his borders.
"It is a brilliant, ruthless maneuver," Caleb murmured, deep respect for the sheer audacity of the play coloring his voice. "He is playing the barbarians against the traitors."
"It's a bloodbath is what it is," Sadie corrected, her gunslinger pragmatism cutting through the high level strategy. "But McKinley is holding the line. He told the cabinet today that American troops will secure the legations, put down the rebellion, and the moment the violence stops, we will demand a total withdrawal of all foreign military forces. If Russia or Japan tries to stay in Manchuria, we will threaten them with absolute economic isolation."
"You are doing exceptional work, Sadie," Caleb said, his voice ringing with genuine gratitude and pride. "You are standing in the room where one of the biggest history piece of the century is being carved up, and you are providing us with the exact intelligence we need to navigate the aftermath. Keep your eyes on the Russian and Japanese ambassadors visiting the Executive Mansion. Desperate empires do desperate things. Do not let McKinley out of your sight."
"Nobody touches him, Boss. Adler out."
The heavy static abruptly cut off, leaving the study bathed in silence once again, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth.
Caleb sat quietly for a long moment, staring at the glowing orange vacuum tubes of the radio, his mind processing the staggering scale of the global conflict. Nations were falling, empires were colliding, and the blood of thousands was soaking into the earth halfway across the world.
He felt a soft, gentle hand rest upon his shoulder.
He looked up to see Mary-Beth standing beside his chair. She had set her novel aside. Her dark eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of awe, apprehension, and a deep, grounding love. She had listened to the entire transmission, fully comprehending the terrifying geopolitical reality her husband was actively manipulating from a wooden desk in Louisiana.
"It sounds like the whole world is on fire, Caleb," Mary-Beth whispered, her hand gently stroking his hair, offering him a silent, physical anchor to reality.
Caleb reached up, covering her hand with his own, bringing her palm to his lips and kissing it softly. The cold, calculating strategist faded entirely, leaving only the fiercely protective man who had built an empire to shield the woman standing beside him.
"The world is always on fire, Mary-Beth," Caleb said quietly, pulling her gently down to sit on the armrest of his chair, wrapping his arm securely around her waist. "Empires rise, and empires burn. Russia, Japan, the Qing dynasty... they will tear each other apart for scraps of land and old grievances."
He looked out the heavy window of the study, toward the dark, sprawling expanse of the Garden District, where his motorcars sat in the driveway, his hospital rose from the earth, and his radio towers pierced the sky.
"But that fire will not reach us," Caleb promised her, his voice carrying the absolute, uncompromising weight of destiny. "We are not fighting for scraps of land, Mary-Beth. We are fighting for the future. And by the time the rest of the world realizes what we are building here... they won't be able to touch us." Mary-Beth leaned her head against his shoulder, her hand resting gently over the growing child in her womb, finding absolute, unshakeable peace in the shadow of his ambition. The world might be burning, but inside the Thorne estate, the future was very safe and secure.
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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: -