Building the First Industrial Empire in Another World

Ernest arrived twelve minutes early.

Arthur considered this a miracle. Hollen considered it proof that Ernest had barely slept. Ernest considered both opinions a waste of time.

The Model One rolled down the wide stone avenue toward the royal grounds, its twin-cylinder engine holding a low, steady beat beneath the hood.

Tup-tup-tup-tup-tup.

Ernest sat behind the walnut wheel. Hollen occupied the passenger seat with his ash stick braced between his boots. Arthur sat in the back, guarding a leather case filled with contract forms, balance sheets, and regional sales maps that neither engineer believed anyone would ask to see.

"Slow down," Arthur muttered, leaning over the back of the front seat.

Ernest kept his eyes on the road. "We are traveling at eighteen kilometers per hour."

"Precisely."

"The road is empty, Arthur."

"We are approaching the palace gates."

"Does the presence of limestone walls alter the friction between rubber and macadam?"

"No," Arthur said, "but it significantly alters the social consequences if you hit one."

Hollen let out a short bark of laughter.

"We are not going to hit a wall," Ernest said.

"You said something very similar before the first run at the old foundry," Hollen reminded him, not looking around. "Right before the steering linkage slipped and we went into a ditch."

"That was a loose taper pin on an experimental arm," Ernest said. "The Model One uses forged steel with split-pin locks."

Arthur closed his eyes. "Could we please avoid discussing failed steering arms while approaching a government inspection?"

The outer wall of the palace grounds rose before them. It was a massive barrier of grey dressed stone, older than the industrial chimneys of Belfast by several centuries.

Two guards in dark blue coats and tall leather shakoes stepped into the roadway. One held up a white-gloved hand.

"Halt."

Ernest pressed the brake pedal. The car stopped smoothly, two yards from the gate line.

The guards looked at the dark green vehicle. Then at Ernest. Then back at the front of the carriage.

Arthur leaned over the low side door, presenting the formal letter. "We are summoned by the Office of Household Transportation."

The first guard took the paper, his eyes scanning the crest.

The second guard walked slowly around the front fender, his bayonet gleaming in the morning sun. He stopped beside the radiator shell, tilting his head.

"Is the carriage still moving?" the soldier asked.

"The carriage is stationary," Ernest answered. "The engine is idling."

The guard stared at the hood. Inside, the twin cylinders fired with a clean, muffled rhythm.

Tup-tup-tup-tup.

"Without a team in harness?" the guard asked.

"The combustion cycle maintains momentum once the crankshaft is turned," Ernest said.

The guard looked bewildered, then vaguely impressed.

Hollen leaned toward Ernest. "You’ve converted the gatekeeper, lad. Now try it on the clerks."

The first guard handed the parchment back to Arthur. "Proceed to the eastern service court. Take the second left beyond the timber stables. Mr. Aldren is waiting."

"Thank you," Ernest said.

He eased the foot pedal into first gear. The car crept through the heavy iron archway, leaving the public noise of the capital behind.

They did not approach the ceremonial front of the palace. That suited Ernest completely.

The eastern service court was a working yard. It was paved with rough granite blocks and surrounded by two-story red-brick service wings, carriage houses, harness rooms, and repair sheds.

It was full of horses.

Coaches were being washed by stable boys; dray teams were unloading sacks of oats; and dispatch riders were leading sweating mounts toward the water troughs.

Ernest immediately pulled the hand throttle back to idle.

"Watch the chestnut on the left," Hollen warned.

A young groom was leading a tall, high-strung chestnut gelding across the yard. As the low hum of the engine drifted across the stones, the horse’s ears snapped forward. It stopped, tossing its head, its nostrils flaring as it caught the unfamiliar smell of petroleum and hot cylinder oil.

Ernest cut the ignition lever.

The engine died instantly, ending in a soft sigh from the intake valve.

The yard grew quiet. The stable hand held the horse firmly by the halter, giving Ernest an appreciative nod as he led the nervous beast into a box stall.

Arthur looked around the bustling court. "The horses will always be an obstacle here."

"A temporary one," Ernest said, unlatching his door.

"You expect horses to vanish from the royal stables?"

"Not all of them," Ernest said, stepping onto the stones. "Ceremonial mounts will remain. But draft teams and dispatch horses will disappear when the arithmetic becomes undeniable."

A man stepped out from the main service entrance, carrying a black leather portfolio under his arm.

He was past fifty, dressed in a plain, well-cut charcoal coat with silver buttons, an unadorned silver watch chain resting across his waistcoat. He wore no uniform, no medals, and no gold braid.

He walked with the quick, unhurried stride of a man who measured every hour by a ledger.

"Baron Teucher?"

"I am Ernest Teucher," Ernest replied, meeting him halfway.

The man took his hand in a firm, calloused grip. "Aldren. Superintendent of Household Transportation."

Ernest introduced Hollen and Arthur. Aldren acknowledged them with brief, polite nods, but his eyes were already sliding past their shoulders to study Chassis Forty-Two.

He did not look at the vehicle with the wide-eyed wonder of the crowds in Crown Square. He looked at it the way an experienced quartermaster looks at a consignment of boots: checking the seams, the soles, and the practical weight.

Ernest liked him immediately.

Aldren opened his portfolio, resting it on the flat timber rail of a mounting block. "Let us establish the parameters of this morning’s visit, gentlemen. This is not a court presentation. I have no authority over state coaches, and I do not care whether the paint matches the Lord Chamberlain’s livery."

"Understood," Ernest said.

"My office is responsible for moving personnel, domestic stores, official dispatches, and administrative staff between nine royal properties, four ministries, and two rail junctions," Aldren continued. "We feed sixty horses in this court alone. We maintain twenty-four road carriages, six luggage vans, and eighteen drivers. Your machine has caused considerable conversation in the city, but novelty is expensive. I am interested only in utility."

Ernest’s posture relaxed. "Reliability. Running costs. Maintenance intervals. Cold-weather operation."

Aldren looked up from his papers, his eyes keen. "Exactly so."

"Splendid," Hollen murmured from the bench. "Two accountants trapped in the same yard."

Arthur stepped forward, reaching for his leather case. "We have prepared complete operational projections—"

"Put the papers away, Mr. Pendelton," Aldren said calmly. "I prefer to observe the iron itself." He turned to Ernest. "First requirement: readiness. A carriage requires fifteen minutes to harness a pair, check traces, and lead out. How long does this require from cold?"

Ernest pulled his gold watch from his pocket, opened the hunter case, and placed it in Aldren’s palm. "Time it."

Aldren raised an eyebrow, then looked down at the second hand. "Whenever you are ready, Baron."

Ernest walked to the front of the green carriage.

He turned the brass petcock on the fuel pipe under the cowl. He moved the mixture lever on the dash one notch to the rich position, set the spark advance to full retard, and took hold of the starting crank.

"Begin," Aldren said.

Ernest gripped the handle, pulled up hard against the compression of cylinder one, and spun the crank through half a turn.

Nothing happened.

A cold silence dropped over the courtyard.

Behind him, Arthur stiffened, his knuckles whitening on his walking cane. Hollen slowly tilted his head back, staring up at the slate roof tiles with a look of long-suffering resignation.

Aldren remained completely motionless, watching the sweep of the second hand.

Ernest did not swear. He did not kick the tire.

He leaned over the cowl, his ear close to the intake pipe. He reached in, opened the carburetor tickler pin for two seconds to flood the jet, and reset the ignition lever a quarter-inch forward.

He seized the crank a second time.

He gave a sharp, violent upward heave.

Chuff... puff...

A faint plume of grey smoke slipped from the exhaust tailpipe, then died.

Arthur looked as if he were about to collapse onto the granite setts.

Hollen took his pipe from his mouth. "Don’t say it, Ernest."

"I am not speaking," Ernest said through his teeth.

"You were thinking it."

"I was adjusting the spark timing."

Ernest reached into the dash once more, setting the commutator to the exact third tooth on the brass quadrant. He stepped back to the crank, plant his left hand firmly on the radiator cap, and pulled upward with every ounce of strength in his shoulder.

TUP-TUP-TUP-TUP-TUP!

The engine caught with a sharp, rolling bark that made two pigeons fly from the eaves. The iron flywheel spun into a gray blur, and the chassis settled into its familiar, disciplined idle.

Ernest immediately leaned over the running board, checking the brass sight-glass on the oil feed. The oil level hovered steadily at forty pounds pressure. The rubber radiator hose pulsed with the first warm circulation of cooling water.

He straightened his back, wiping a speck of greasy soot from his thumb.

Aldren checked the face of the pocket watch, clicked the lid closed, and handed it back to Ernest.

"Thirty-eight seconds," Aldren announced.

Ernest frowned, his pride bruised. "Under normal conditions, she catches on the first lift. The fuel had drained back into the line during the journey from the station."

Arthur stepped into the gap, his salesmanship reviving instantly. "Thirty-eight seconds remains a fraction of the time required to harness a two-horse team, Mr. Aldren."

"That is true," Aldren said, making a brief pencil mark on his slate. "Though a horse does not require you to turn a brass key three times before it agrees to move."

"A horse occasionally kicks its groom in the ribs while the harness is being buckled," Hollen pointed out from the bench.

Aldren permitted himself a very faint, dry smile. "An accurate assessment, Mr. Vane."

The transportation officer walked a slow circuit around the dark green body, tapping the timber sills with his pencil. "Fuel. What spirit does it consume, and what is the effective endurance?"

"Standard refined petroleum spirit from the Belfast shale works," Ernest replied. "The tank beneath the seat holds forty liters. At moderate road speeds—roughly twenty-five kilometers per hour—it consumes approximately ten liters per hundred kilometers. Practical cruising range is between three hundred and fifty and four hundred kilometers on a single filling."

Aldren stopped his pencil. He looked up, his eyes sharpening. "Four hundred kilometers?"

"Provided the roads are reasonably dry," Ernest said.

"That would allow a dispatch to travel from Helmarte to the southern ports without a single horse change," Aldren murmured, staring at the green cowl. "A courier team currently requires seven relay stations to cover that distance in twenty hours."

"This machine will cover it in twelve," Ernest said. "Provided the driver stops once to check the oil level."

Arthur leaned toward Hollen, whispering behind his hand. "He’s listening. Look at his pencil."

"He’s an iron-headed bureaucrat, Arthur," Hollen whispered back. "He’s calculating how many horses he can sell before winter."

The second test was luggage capacity.

Aldren turned toward the carriage house and raised his hand. Two young porters emerged from the arched doorway carrying heavy leather traveling trunks. Behind them came two more with square document boxes, followed by a third pair bearing four leather portmanteaus.

They set the luggage down on the stones in two formidable rows.

Ernest looked at the pile. Then he looked at the compact tonneau of Chassis Forty-Two.

"Is this the standard baggage for a single journey?" Ernest asked.

"This represents the luggage for two administrative secretaries accompanying a minister on a three-day tour of the provincial dockyards," Aldren said calmly. "Can your carriage accommodate it while carrying four persons?"

Arthur looked as if he were about to volunteer to carry two trunks on his own lap. "With our reinforced luggage rails, we can certainly secure—"

"No," Ernest interrupted firmly.

Arthur nearly choked on his neckcloth. "Ernest!"

Aldren looked at the Chairman. "No?"

"Not on this chassis," Ernest stated without hesitation. "You can place three small bags beneath the rear seat, and two trunks can be strapped to the iron rack over the rear axle. But if you load all six of those cases onto this body while carrying four passengers, you will exceed the design payload by nearly four hundred pounds."

Aldren’s eyes narrowed. "What happens if that weight is applied?"

"The rear leaf springs will invert under road shock," Ernest said, walking back to the rear wheel. "The drive chains will run out of alignment, the brake linings will overheat on down-grades, and the handling will become dangerous on wet setts."

Silence fell over the court.

Arthur stared at the stones, looking like a man watching his bank balance drain into a river.

Aldren looked from the heavy trunks to the compact green car. Then he took his pencil and wrote three lines in his book.

"What did you write?" Ernest asked directly.

Aldren looked up, his expression completely neutral. "I wrote: The manufacturer understands the physical limits of his timber and steel, and possesses the honesty to state them before the contract is drafted."

Arthur looked up, blinking.

"I have listened to carriage-builders promise me that an eight-hundred-pound phaeton could haul a ton of lead over mountain passes, Baron," Aldren said, closing his ledger with a sharp slap. "I prefer an engineer who tells me where the metal breaks."

Hollen let out a low chuckle, tapping his pipe against the sole of his boot. "Told you, Arthur. They speak the same language."