The "Ghost-Signal" had proven that the air was no longer a secure medium for Oakhaven's secrets. If the Empire could induce currents from the sky, Deacon would have to retreat into the earth and the water. The next logical step for the "Copper Nerve" was the Oryn Sub-Marine Link—a direct telegraph cable laid across the bed of the estuary to connect the Rail-Head directly to the Free Cities, bypassing the Imperial signal towers on the cliffs.
But the "gritty realism" of underwater engineering was far more punishing than stringing wires on poles. The estuary was a place of shifting silts, corrosive salt, and crushing tidal pressures.
"The silk and lacquer insulation won't last an hour in salt water," Miller said, pulling a piece of blackened, brittle wire from a test tank of brine. "The salt eats the copper, and the tiny sea-borers chew through the fabric. We need something that's waterproof, flexible, and tough enough to survive a ship's anchor dragging over it."
Deacon turned to the chemistry of the deep. He introduced Gutta-Percha, a natural latex resin imported from the Southern Tropics, which he refined using steam-heated rollers. Unlike rubber, gutta-percha was a perfect insulator that became tougher and more resilient when submerged in cold water.
The production of the "Armored Cable" was a grueling, industrial marathon. At the Oakhaven foundry, a specialized machine twisted seven strands of copper wire into a central core, coated it in three layers of gutta-percha, wrapped it in tarred hemp, and finally armored it in a spiral of galvanized iron wires.
"It's not just a wire anymore," Julian noted, watching the heavy, snake-like cable coil into the hold of the SS Integrity. "It's a five-ton anchor."
The laying of the cable began during the "Slack Tide." The Integrity moved slowly across the two-mile mouth of the estuary, the cable paying out over a massive iron sheave at the stern. Deacon stood on the deck, his hand on the cable, feeling the rhythmic thrum as it settled into the muck of the sea floor.
But the sea had its own "Traditionalists." As the ship reached the midway point, it was swarmed by dozens of small fishing smacks. These were the Estuary Drifters, men whose families had fished these silts for generations. They carried gaffs, torches, and a deep-seated fear of the "Iron Lord's" latest intrusion.
"You're poisoning the deeps!" a fisherman screamed, casting a stone that clattered off the Integrity's iron hull. "Since you started your 'Spark,' the silver-fin haven't returned! Your wire is a curse on the water!"
"The wire is inert!" Deacon shouted back through a megaphone. "It carries no more poison than a sunken anchor!"
The Drifters didn't listen. They believed the "Spark" was leaking into the water, driving the fish away. In reality, the fish had moved because of the increased steam-traffic and the silt from the canal construction, but the cable was a visible, tangible target for their frustration. One of the fishing boats drifted dangerously close to the stern, and a man swung a heavy iron grappling hook, trying to snag the cable and haul it to the surface to be cut.
"If that cable snaps under tension, it'll whip back and take the legs off every man on this deck!" Miller yelled, reaching for the steam-hose.
Deacon grabbed the hose first. "No! If we scald them, we make them martyrs for the Coal-Lords. Use the Induction-Pulse."
Deacon ran to the cable-testing room and bypassed the safety resistors. He sent a high-voltage, low-amperage pulse through the armored exterior of the cable—not enough to kill, but enough to create a powerful, localized magnetic field.
The effect was instantaneous. The iron grappling hook, caught in the sudden magnetic surge, was jerked violently toward the cable. The fisherman's oars, tipped with iron bands, hummed and vibrated in his hands. The compasses on the fishing boats spun wildly. To the superstitious Drifters, it looked as though the cable had come alive, reaching out with invisible hands to seize their tools.
"It's a sea-serpent of iron!" the cry went up. The fishing fleet scattered, oars splashing frantically as they fled the "demon-wire."
The cable was successfully landed on the opposite shore by dusk. Deacon sat on a driftwood log, watching the first test message click through the long-distance galvanometer. The signal was perfect—clean, cold, and silent, protected by two miles of salt water and iron armor.
"The Drifters won't forget this, David," Julian said, handing him a tin cup of coffee. "They think you've claimed the sea now, too."
"I haven't claimed it," Deacon said, his eyes on the dark water. "I've just made it a part of the network. But Miller, the magnetic pulse... did you see the way it affected the silt? It cleared a path. If we can use high-frequency vibrations to keep the cable-bed clear, we might be able to prevent the silt-clogs in the canal locks as well."
The "Oryn Link" was more than a telegraph; it was the birth of Acoustic Engineering. But as the first official message—the morning ore-price—traveled through the deep, Deacon realized that the "Ghost-Signal" in the air was already being replaced by a new threat. The Imperial Navy had seen the cable-laying, and they were already commissioning their own "Diving Bells" to find and tap the line in the darkness of the estuary floor.