The "Spark" had done more than light the mines; it had revitalized the "Copper Nerve." With the new dynamos providing a consistent, high-amperage current, Deacon was able to move beyond the primitive, clicking sounders of the early telegraph. He introduced the Relay Station, a device that used a small electromagnet to trigger a secondary circuit, allowing a signal to travel hundreds of miles without losing its clarity.
Oakhaven was now the center of a silent, invisible web that stretched all the way to the Southern Trade Guilds. Information—the "Oakhaven Price"—moved at the speed of light, making the Imperial Post look like a relic of the Stone Age. But as the network grew, Deacon noticed a disturbing anomaly in the logs.
"There's a 'Back-Feed' on the Southern Trunk," Miller reported, tapping a pencil against a galvanometer dial. "Every night at 03:00 Railway Time, the line tension spikes. It's not a message—there's no code—but the needles dance for exactly ten minutes. It's as if someone is 'bleeding' the current from the other end."
Deacon sat at the master terminal, his brow furrowed. He had designed the system to be a closed loop, but the "gritty realism" of the Imperial infrastructure was that his wires often ran parallel to the old Imperial Signal Towers. "It's induction, Miller. Someone has wrapped a secondary coil around our main trunk line. They aren't cutting the wire; they're 'listening' to the magnetic field it creates."
This was the first instance of Signal Intelligence in the Empire. The Lord High Steward's "Standardization Engineers" hadn't just been stealing boiler designs; they had been learning the physics of the spark. By monitoring the pulses on the Oakhaven line, the Empire could anticipate trade movements, troop deployments, and even private communications between the Guilds.
"But it's more than just eavesdropping," Julian added, stepping into the dark office with a stack of intercepted Southern pamphlets. "Look at the timing of the spikes. It correlates with the 'Vigil-Hours' of the High Church. There are reports from the South of people feeling 'unexplained tremors' or 'sudden visions' when they stand near the telegraph poles."
Deacon felt a cold realization settle in his gut. The Silver Circle—the Emperor's alchemists—weren't just interested in the physics; they were interested in the Bio-Electrical Interface. They were trying to see if the "Spark" could be used to transmit more than just letters.
"They're using our network as a massive tuning fork," Deacon whispered. "They're trying to find the 'Resonance' of the human nervous system. If they can pulse the lines at the right frequency, they can induce a state of suggestion in anyone near the wires."
The "Ghost-Signal" was an Imperial attempt at mass psychological control. To the common citizen, the "hum" of the telegraph was becoming a source of dread—a "Voice of the Crown" that bypassed the ears and spoke directly to the subconscious.
Deacon knew he couldn't just cut the lines; the South relied on them for food and trade. He had to engineer a Signal Scrambler. He spent forty-eight hours straight in the laboratory, developing the Rotary Phase-Shifter. It was a mechanical device that constantly shifted the frequency of the telegraph current in a randomized pattern, making the "Ghost-Signal" impossible to lock onto.
The "gritty" cost of the scrambler was that it made the telegraph line sound like a cacophony of white noise to anyone without an Oakhaven "Decryption Key." It was a declaration of electronic war.
The night Deacon engaged the Scrambler, the "Ghost-Signal" fought back. The Imperial coils on the other end surged with a massive, retaliatory power-dump, trying to burn out the Oakhaven dynamos. The wires in the High Cleft glowed a dull cherry-red in the darkness, hissing as the sleet hit them.
"The insulation is melting!" Miller shouted, reaching for the emergency cutoff.
"Don't touch it!" Deacon commanded, his hand on the manual rheostat. "If we cut the power now, they'll know they've found our limit. We push through the surge. We're going to ground the excess into the Capacitor Banks!"
The Oakhaven station became a theater of blue lightning. Huge sparks jumped between the brass terminals, and the scent of ozone was so thick it tasted like copper on the tongue. But the Oakhaven Standard held. The standardized Whitworth fasteners and the heavy-duty silk insulation Deacon had insisted upon prevented a total meltdown.
By dawn, the Ghost-Signal was silent. The Imperial "listening post" in the South had literally exploded, the induction coils melting into a heap of slag. Deacon had won the first battle for the airwaves, but the price was high. The "Spark" was no longer just a tool for light and talk; it was a weapon that could reach into the very minds of the populace.
"The Emperor won't forgive the loss of his 'Voice,' David," Julian said, looking at the charred remains of the test-terminal.
"He never had a voice," Deacon replied, his eyes cold. "He had a leash. And I just cut it. But Miller, we need to start work on Shielded Cables. If we're going to move into the era of the 'Spark,' we can't leave our thoughts hanging in the open air."
As the sun rose over the valley, the telegraph began to click again—this time with the steady, honest rhythm of grain prices. But Deacon knew that somewhere in the South, the Silver Circle was already building a bigger coil.