The next morning.
A cold rain had just ceased, and the flagstone pavement of Broadway was filled with puddles. The iron wheels of carriages rolled through the water, splashing up gray mud.
Over a dozen four-wheeled freight wagons were parked in the back alley of the News Media Company building.
Bundles of newspapers were tossed down from the wagons by porters.
Twelve-year-old newsboy Jimmy wore an ill-fitting old coat, and the soles of his leather shoes were peeling off.
He squeezed in among dozens of other newsboys, handed over five cents, and received a thick stack of the New York Daily News, smelling strongly of ink, from the distributor.
Jimmy tucked the newspapers under his arm, took a deep breath of the cold air, and began running toward Wall Street.
"Extra! Extra!"
Jimmy shouted at the top of his voice, which was raspy from puberty, as he ran down the street.
"Pittsburgh engulfed in flames! Westinghouse Electric experiment fails, high-voltage Alternating Current explodes on the spot!"
"Extra! Fatal two thousand volts! Mayor orders all utility poles dismantled!"
Jimmy's shouts sounded particularly piercing in the quiet morning.
In front of a corner cafe, several stockbrokers who were about to go inside for breakfast stopped in their tracks.
"Hey! Kid, give me one."
A man wearing a top hat fished out a two-cent coin and tossed it to Jimmy.
Jimmy pulled out a newspaper, handed it over, and continued running.
The man unfolded the paper, his gaze falling upon a massive black headline that took up half the page.
His brow furrowed instantly.
Others in the cafe also came out to buy newspapers.
"Alternating Current causes fire? Transformer explosion?"
A plump businessman read the contents of the paper aloud.
"My God. They hung two-thousand-volt wires on wooden poles? Are these people crazy? If a wire breaks and falls on the street, everyone on the block will be electrocuted!"
"Is that the Westinghouse Electric that Old Morgan from London invested in? The one that was just boasting in the papers about replacing General Electric?"
"Yeah, that's them. I heard that Scotsman Carnegie was there too. The paper says he was almost burned to death under the wooden platform. The Mayor of Pittsburgh signed the ban on the spot."
Panic and doubt spread through the streets of New York like a plague as each newspaper was sold.
Those who originally held a sliver of curiosity and expectation for Alternating Current now felt nothing but deep fear in their hearts.
Greenwich Village, Third Block.
Inside Archibald Vance's two-story brownstone, the fireplace in the dining room burned warmly.
Vance wore a comfortable silk morning gown and sat at the end of the long dining table. On the table were silver plates containing golden fried eggs, bacon, and several slices of toast.
His wife, Mrs. Vance, sat opposite him, adding milk to her black tea.
The maid, Mary, pushed open the dining room door, holding a newly delivered copy of The New York Herald.
"Sir, your morning paper."
Mary laid the newspaper flat on the table by Vance's hand.
Vance picked up a napkin and wiped his hands. He picked up his coffee cup, his gaze casually sweeping over the front page of the newspaper.
*Clatter.*
The porcelain cup in Vance's hand slipped and fell onto the table, coffee splashing onto the tablecloth.
"What's wrong, Archibald?"
Mrs. Vance was startled and hurriedly grabbed a cloth to wipe the table.
Vance ignored the spilled coffee.
He grabbed the newspaper with both hands, his eyes fixed on the bold headline.
"Good God."
Vance's voice carried a tremor of lingering fear.
"Pittsburgh. That company called Westinghouse Electric held an Alternating Current lighting ceremony last night. A Transformer exploded. Carbon arc lamps burst in the square. It burned Market Square to the ground."
Mrs. Vance stopped what she was doing.
"Explosion? Was anyone killed?"
"The paper says dozens of civilians were burned by flying sparks and metal fragments. The whole square was caught in a stampede."
Vance skimmed the text quickly.
"The article says they used two-thousand-volt high-voltage electricity. And the insulation was coal tar and asphalt. It cracked in the cold air, causing a severe short circuit."
Vance put down the paper and looked up at the General Electric brass chandelier hanging from the center of the dining room ceiling.
Five Incandescent bulbs were emitting a steady, soft, warm yellow glow.
He turned his head again to look at the Electric Fan sitting on a walnut base in the corner. Driven by a Direct Current motor, the brass blades made an extremely faint, reassuring humming sound.
Vance stood up and walked to the toggle switch on the wall.
He reached out and touched the surface of the walnut switch box.
It was cool, with no sign of heating.
He flipped the lever, and the chandelier went out.
He flipped it again, and the chandelier lit up instantly. No sparks or noise.
Vance exhaled a long breath, feeling a layer of cold sweat break out on his back.
"My dear," Vance said, walking back to the dining table and sitting down.
"Two months ago, when the General Electric salesman came knocking, I was still hesitating, thinking that twenty dollars a month for electricity was a bit expensive. I even wanted to wait until Westinghouse Electric's Alternating Current came out to see if there would be a cheaper price."
Vance looked at his wife.
"I am now incredibly lucky that I signed that five-year contract back then."
Mrs. Vance also nodded, feeling a lingering fear.
"General Electric's power is safe; they stepped the voltage down to one hundred and ten volts. The worker who came to install the Electricity Meter said that even if there was a problem with the line, the fuse in the meter would automatically blow. It would never catch fire."
Vance picked up his fork and poked a piece of bacon.
"Mr. Argyle is indeed taking our money. But he also gave us safe light and wind. That Scottish steel-maker and Old Morgan's proxy—they are experimenting with civilian lives; they want to build electric chairs in our living rooms."
The doorbell rang.
The maid, Mary, went to open the door.
It was the neighbor from across the street, Mr. Brown the banker.
Mr. Brown hadn't even put his coat on properly; he walked in clutching a newspaper, his face full of terror.
"Vance, have you seen the morning paper!" Brown shouted.
"I've seen it, Brown."
Vance cut into his fried egg, his tone becoming very calm and relieved.
"I'm just glad that it's a General Electric Electricity Meter hanging on my house's exterior wall."
Brown pulled out a chair and sat down, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
"Yesterday at the bank, I was listening to some partners discuss whether to switch the power in those suburban factories to Westinghouse's Alternating Current because they promised lower electricity prices. Now it seems anyone who dares use that damn Alternating Current will have their factory burned to the ground tomorrow!"
"Cheapness often comes with a fatal price." Vance ate the fried egg.
"Go tell your partners to honestly sign a ten-year exclusive contract with General Electric. This money deserves to be earned by the Argyle Family."
On this cold, gray morning.
From the brownstone residences of Greenwich Village to the trading floors of Wall Street.
An emotion called "AC Phobia," fueled by the media controlled by Felix, was deeply planted in the hearts of every East Coast elite and commoner alike.
Although Direct Current had a short transmission distance and thick cables, it had already been running steadily in New York for several months.
There were no fires or explosions.
This became General Electric's most impregnable moat.
The top floor of the Empire Bank Building.
Felix sat behind a large walnut desk.
He had rushed back to New York from Pittsburgh on a special train late last night, and was now wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit.
Victor Fowler stood across from the desk, a professional smile of mission accomplished on his face.
"Boss, today's morning papers have all been distributed," Fowler continued reporting the results.
"The New York Tribune, the New York Herald, and The Sun—all the front-page headlines are perfectly aligned: 'High-Voltage Alternating Current is a Deadly Experiment.' A photo of the ban signed by the Mayor of Pittsburgh is also printed in the papers."
"How is the effect?"
Felix toyed with the silver letter opener in his hand.
"Panic has already set in," Fowler replied.
"This morning, the signs outside Westinghouse Electric's two preparatory offices in New York and Philadelphia were pelted with stones by angry citizens. Several textile mill owners who had previously shown interest in Alternating Current rushed to General Electric's business office early this morning to sign ten-year Direct Current supply contracts."
Felix nodded and set down the letter opener.
Legal Director Benjamin Pierce stood up from the nearby sofa and walked to the desk.
"Boss, the media fire has been lit. The Legal Department's actions are also keeping pace."
Pierce handed over a thick file.
"This is the draft of the 'High-Voltage Current Urban Transmission Safety Act' that I drafted overnight. I have already sent someone to submit it to the New York State Legislative Committee. In the draft, using the Pittsburgh fire as a case study, we strongly recommend that the state government legislate to strictly prohibit any current exceeding two hundred volts from entering densely populated urban areas."
Pierce adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses.
"Once this bill passes in New York State, neighboring state legislatures in Boston, Philadelphia, and elsewhere will surely follow suit. By then, even if Westinghouse Electric solves the transformer technology for Alternating Current, their high-voltage lines won't be able to cross any city boundaries. The Alternating Current grid will be completely confined to the wilderness."
"Well done, Pierce. Use the law to solidify the panic." Felix leaned back in his chair.
"Morgan must be furious in London, but he's powerless now. The first sum of money he invested in Westinghouse was burned to a crisp in last night's fireball."
The office door was pushed open.
Timmy, head of the Intelligence Department, walked in quickly, the chill of the outdoors still clinging to his trench coat.
"Boss, Mr. Fowler, Mr. Pierce." Timmy gave a slight nod to everyone.
Felix glanced at Fowler and Pierce.
"You two head out for now. Keep an eye on public opinion and the state legislature's movements."
Fowler and Pierce exited the office, closing the door behind them.
Timmy walked to the desk and pulled out a chair to sit.
"Any news from Europe?" Felix asked.
"Yes, Boss."
Timmy took a kraft paper dossier from the inner pocket of his trench coat.
"This is the other secret mission you assigned—the operation to scout for scientific research talent in Europe during the Franco-Prussian War."
Timmy opened the dossier and poured out several lists.
"The war has destroyed normal life in Paris and Berlin. Universities are suspended, and laboratories have been requisitioned. Our intelligence agents, armed with blank checks provided by the company, entered Sorbonne University, École Polytechnique, and the Humboldt University of Berlin."
Timmy pointed at the dense list of names.
"The results are very fruitful. In France, we persuaded seventeen top chemists and metallurgical experts; they are completely despondent over Napoleon III's defeat and the chaos of the new government. In Prussia, we also persuaded twenty-five physicists and mechanical engineers; they are tired of being forced by the military administration to improve artillery rifling."
Felix sat up straight, his gaze sweeping over the names.
He wasn't familiar with the specific names, but he knew the academic value they represented.
"Forty-two people in total?" Felix asked.
"Forty-two top scholars from various fields, plus their families," Timmy reported.
"We bribed the port officials for them. Disguised as employees of the Metropolitan Trading Company's European office, they boarded our cargo ships from the Port of Le Havre and the Port of Hamburg, carrying their most important manuscripts and blueprints."
"Where are they now?"
"The first batch of cargo ships docked at the New Jersey pier last night."
I had them sent directly to the Central Laboratory, where independent apartments and ample R&D funding have already been prepared for them."
A look of satisfaction appeared in Felix's eyes.
"Old Morgan thinks he can defeat me on this continent using Edison and British pounds."
Felix gave a disdainful smile, his fingers tapping on the desk.
"He has no idea what the true value of war is. He only sees the fluctuations of French government bonds. Meanwhile, I have brought a century of accumulated European brains into my laboratory."
Felix walked to the map on the wall.
On the map, he had drawn a heavy 'X' in red ink over the location of Pittsburgh.
"Westinghouse Electric is now in a deadlock," Felix said, looking at the 'X'.
"Edison's insulation materials have proven to be a failure, and their credibility is bankrupt in the eyes of the public. Carnegie's steel mills still haven't received cheap power. If Morgan's capital chain breaks, this alliance of theirs will fall apart."
Felix turned around and looked at Timmy.
"By the way... what about that boy in Graz? Tesla. Any news of him?"
From the bottom of his briefcase, Timmy took out a letter sealed with wax.
"This is a personal letter from Nikola sent back by Klaus via a dedicated line last week. Attached to the letter is an extremely complex mathematical manuscript."
Felix took the envelope and cut it open with the letter opener.
He pulled out the letter and quickly read through Tesla's deductions in the Graz laboratory.
When he saw terms like "Two-phase Alternating Current," "Rotating Magnetic Field," and "Brushless Induction Motor," his breath hitched slightly.
This was a fourteen-year-old boy who, without a stamping machine or high-purity copper, had forced open the door to truth solely through the mathematical formulas in his mind.
Felix folded the letter and put it in a drawer.
"Write back to Klaus."
There was a hint of rare solemnity in Felix's tone.
"Tell Nikola that I've seen his theory and it's very valuable. Let him focus on finishing his advanced mathematics studies in Graz. Tell him that on the day he graduates, General Electric will build a transformer factory specifically for him. I'm taking everything related to his Rotating Magnetic Field."
Felix looked out at the city of New York.
"Since Morgan wants Alternating Current, let him watch the Alternating Current he invested in burn to ashes in the asphalt."
In the factory building by the Allegheny River, the pungent smell of burning was like a dense fog that wouldn't disperse.
The great fire at Market Square had been extinguished by the Pittsburgh fire department.
But the remains of the fire—the transformer, burnt down to its cast-iron skeleton and a few strands of blackened copper wire—were hauled back to the Westinghouse Electric laboratory by several workers in a carriage and tossed onto the hard concrete floor.
Edison sat on a long wooden bench, his hands covered in black carbon ash and blood from burst blisters.
He didn't tend to his wounds, only staring intently at the pile of scrap metal on the floor that was still radiating residual heat.
Carnegie paced back and forth in the lab like an enraged bull. A large section of the hem of his high-collared overcoat was charred, with black ash still falling from the edges.
"You've ruined everything for me! Thomas!"
Carnegie stopped abruptly and roared, pointing a finger at Edison's nose.
"I spent a full two thousand dollars bribing Mayor Jared to have him stand in the front row and witness our miracle! And the result? You showed him a murder! That bastard mayor signed a city-wide ban on high-voltage electricity while standing on the carriage step before the fire was even out!"
Carnegie clutched his hair with both hands, his voice hoarse with extreme rage.
"Tomorrow morning, the police across all of Pennsylvania will be carrying demolition orders, chopping down the cedar utility poles I paid to put up one by one! Not only did my steel mill fail to get cheap power, but I've now become the laughingstock of all Pittsburgh!"
Clive Cavendish stood by the window, far from the pile of scrap metal. He covered his nose and mouth with a pristine white handkerchief, his gaze cold.
"Mr. Edison, Mr. Morgan's pounds are not meant for setting off fireworks in the square."
Cavendish's tone carried a heavy dose of British arrogance and contempt.
"We provided millions of dollars in seed capital. You vowed that a crude layer of asphalt could contain two thousand volts. Now, not only is the equipment destroyed, but you've completely buried the reputation of Alternating Current. That Mr. Argyle in New York is probably popping champagne in his skyscraper right now."
Edison looked up sharply, a defiant glint in his bloodshot eyes. He jumped up from the wooden bench and rushed to Cavendish's face.
"Fuck you! What the hell do you know about insulation!"
Edison gritted his teeth, his spit nearly spraying onto Cavendish's face.
"How many times did I tell you in the lab that asphalt becomes brittle in cold air? It can't withstand the internal high temperatures generated by an alternating magnetic field. I need natural rubber from South America! I need special insulating varnish from DuPont! Did you give them to me?"
Edison turned his head, glaring just as fiercely at Carnegie.
"And you! You sent me scraps from the coke ovens! You expected me to block two thousand volts with rags used for wrapping mummies. Making it light up for three minutes was already a miracle of physics. If it were anyone else, you wouldn't have survived the moment the switch was thrown!"
"Damn it, still making excuses!"
Carnegie lunged forward and grabbed Edison by the collar.
"You fraud! You were gambling with my life and my factory!"
"Let go! Andrew!"
A steady, powerful voice rang out from the laboratory entrance.
George Westinghouse strode in.
His face was also smeared with soot, and he held several fresh proofs of newspapers in his hand. He grabbed Carnegie's wrist and forced it open.
Westinghouse stood between Edison and Carnegie, his gaze sweeping over everyone present.
"Contain your tempers. Hurling accusations won't save Westinghouse Electric."
Westinghouse tossed the newspapers onto the lab table.
"Look at these. These are the front pages of every major newspaper on the East Coast. Argyle has already started his propaganda machine. He's going to nail Alternating Current to the gallows."
Carnegie grabbed the newspaper, and with just one glance at the shocking black headline, "Deadly Alternating Current," he closed his eyes in despair.
Cavendish walked over, glanced at the newspaper, and let out a cold laugh.
"This is the result you've delivered, Mr. Westinghouse. Mr. Morgan's patience has run out. I will recommend that London cease all capital injections into Pittsburgh. This farce should come to an end."
"If you dare stop the funding, we all die together."
Westinghouse met Cavendish's gaze without hesitation.
"Cavendish. You're a messenger; you don't understand machines at all. But I do. I've carefully examined that burnt transformer. Thomas wasn't lying. It's not that the theory of Alternating Current is wrong; it's that the materials reached their limit."
Westinghouse pointed to the wreckage on the floor.
"Argyle is not just a businessman; he's a terrifying master tactician. Months ago, he cut off the supply chain for all high-grade insulating materials in North America. He forced us to use asphalt. He forced us to hold the demonstration in winter. He calculated that the asphalt would crack during the temperature fluctuations."
"This isn't Thomas's fault. This is the result of our entire alliance being unilaterally crushed by Argyle in the supply chain. We are using Stone Age materials to fight against an industrial barrier he built with pure gold."
Westinghouse walked to Edison's side and patted his tense shoulder.
"Under extremely harsh conditions, he kept the transformer running for three minutes. This proves that the direction of using Laminated Cores to block Eddy Currents is absolutely correct. We have touched the threshold of Alternating Current."
Carnegie slumped into a chair, defeated.
"What use is touching the threshold? George, the mayor signed the ban. We can't even run a single wire in downtown Pittsburgh anymore. Without a power grid, how will my Rolling Mills turn? Argyle' installment loans are still stealing my customers. I can't hold out until the day you find rubber."
"The ban is only effective within Pittsburgh city limits."
Westinghouse leaned his hands on the table, staring at Carnegie.
"Andrew, take a longer view. If they won't let us into the city, then we'll build our factories in the suburbs. We'll build our own power stations. We can lay cables through underground pipes to avoid the risk of wooden poles catching fire. As long as we can build a more perfect transformer."
Westinghouse turned to look at Cavendish.
"Telegraph Mr. Morgan and tell him the truth of the situation here. Alternating Current isn't dead; it just tripped. We need more money. We need to establish our own independent material supply chain. If we give up now, Argyle' Direct Current will completely dominate this country. When that happens, Mr. Morgan's factories in Europe can forget about selling goods to North America."
Cavendish gripped his sterling silver cane.
He looked at Westinghouse's determined eyes, then at Edison, who, despite his disheveled state, still looked like a lone wolf.
He knew Westinghouse was telling the truth; Argyle' monopoly had become a substantial threat.
"I will convey your words to Broad Street."
Cavendish adjusted the collar of his trench coat and turned toward the door.
"I hope Mr. Morgan is still willing to listen to your explanations. Gentlemen, you'd better pray that London's printing presses are still willing to turn for you."
The laboratory door closed.
Westinghouse looked at the scrap metal on the floor and took a deep breath.
"Thomas, go wash your face. Starting tomorrow, we redraw the blueprints. Slice the cores even thinner. Find Asbestos, find anything that can insulate heat."
Edison wiped the blood from his face and sat back down on the wooden bench.
"I'll build it, George. Even if I have to bite through it with my teeth, I'll snap Argyle' Direct Current grid. MARK. MY. WORDS!"