The telegraph line had reached Oryn-West, the first significant trading hub between the Oakhaven mines and the coast. It was a town of mud-slicked streets and timbered warehouses, where the local economy lived and died by the "Price of the Gate." Traditionally, grain and ore prices were set by the arrival of the afternoon courier; traders would gather at the local exchange, eyes fixed on the road, waiting for the dust cloud that signaled the arrival of the Imperial Post.
By the time the copper wire was strung through the town square and into the newly established Oakhaven Station, Deacon had realized that technology didn't just solve problems—it created new avenues for human greed.
Inside the small, brick-lined station, the brass sounder was a constant presence. It was no longer just the "A" and "B" of the early tests. Deacon and Miller had refined the code into a shorthand for trade: O-W (Ore-Weight), G-P (Grain-Price), S-B (Steam-Barge).
"We have a problem that isn't mechanical, David," Julian said, stepping into the cramped office. He gestured to the street outside. A group of men in expensive furs—local merchant-factors—were loitering near the door, their eyes fixed on the young operator Deacon had trained. "Those men have offered Hallow, our chief operator, three years' salary just to 'accidentally' delay the morning price-report for ten minutes."
Deacon leaned against the heavy oak desk, his hands stained with the lead-oxide of the batteries. "Ten minutes of silence in Oryn-West allows them to buy every bushel of wheat at yesterday's lower price before the rest of the market realizes the value has spiked in the capital. It's information arbitrage."
"It's more than that," Julian countered. "They're trying to turn the telegraph into a weapon for the wealthy. If the common farmer doesn't trust the wire, they'll go back to the couriers. We lose the legitimacy of the system."
Deacon spent the afternoon observing the flow of the room. He realized the vulnerability wasn't in the wire, but in the human ear. Anyone who knew the code could stand outside the window and listen to the clicks of the sounder. The information was effectively public to anyone with a rudimentary understanding of the pulses.
To solve this, Deacon retreated to the workshop for a grueling thirty-six-hour stretch. He didn't build a better battery; he built a Telegraphic Cypher-Wheel. It was a pair of brass discs with the alphabet etched along the rim, geared together in a way that allowed for a shifting offset.
"From now on," Deacon explained to his gathered operators, "we don't send the price in plain-code. We use the wheel. Every morning, the offset changes. A 'click' that sounds like an 'A' in the morning might be a 'Q' in the afternoon. Unless the operator at both ends has the daily key, the signal is gibberish."
It was a gritty, manual solution to a sophisticated problem. But the "Information Black Market" was persistent. Two days later, a fire broke out in the Oryn-West storage sheds—a blatant act of arson designed to distract the guards while someone tried to steal the Cypher-Wheel from the station.
Deacon caught the intruder himself. It wasn't a Syndicate thug, but a desperate clerk from the local Grain Exchange. The man was trembling, smelling of kerosene and fear.
"They promised me my debts would be cleared," the clerk whimpered as Deacon held him by the collar against the cool brick of the station wall. "They said the wire was stealing the work of honest men. That it wasn't fair for the North to know the price before the South had even woken up."
"Fairness is a luxury of the slow," Deacon said, his voice a low, cold vibration. He didn't hand the man to the militia. Instead, he led him into the station and sat him down in front of the battery jars. "You want to know how the wire works? Look at these jars. This isn't magic. It's chemistry. It's hard work and consistent measurement. If you want to know the price, you don't steal the wheel. You buy a seat at the exchange and you pay for the service like everyone else."
Deacon realized that the "First Mile" was over, but the "Information Age" was proving to be a logistical nightmare. He had to implement a strict Chain of Custody for the cipher keys. He had to hire "Line-Riders"—armed guards who lived in small shacks every ten miles along the wire to prevent traders from "tapping" the lines with portable receivers.
The cost of the telegraph was ballooning. It wasn't just copper and silk; it was salaries, security, and the constant friction of human corruption. By the end of the second month, they had reached thirty miles. The wire was a thin, fragile thread of order stretched across a landscape that was increasingly hostile to its existence.
One evening, as Deacon stood atop the Oryn-West water tower, he looked back toward Oakhaven. He could see the faint glow of the foundry fires in the distance, and the line of poles trailing away into the dark. He felt the weight of the system he had created. He wasn't just an engineer; he was becoming a regulator. Every pulse that traveled through that wire was a piece of the world's future, and he was the only one who truly understood how easily it could be strangled.
"The Empress will hear of this soon," Julian said, joining him on the tower. "The merchants are writing letters. They're complaining that Oakhaven has a 'divine ear' that sees into their ledgers."
"Let them write," Deacon said. "By the time the letters reach Solstice, the wire will be fifty miles further. We aren't just moving prices, Julian. We're moving the center of the Empire's gravity. And once it shifts, no amount of letters will pull it back."