Tesla - Jason Walker (readict books txt) 📗

that might explain his love for tinkering with electricity, but he would never know for sure. If nothing else, it made for a good story when trying to sell his inventions. He had never had the same sort of flare and talent for self-praise as Thomas did, so any extra boost he could get in that area was a great help to him.

Tesla closed his diary and sat back in his chair, staring blankly into the black abyss of his coffee. It smelled so good, it stimulated the good memories that he had of home to come forward in his mind. Here he was, thirty-nine and having to start from scratch all over again. His ray transmission technology had been destroyed. All the money he had invested into working with impulse ray beams that could run motors had been reduced to ash. His models, his plans, and his data were now nothing but soot and smoke. His mind wasn’t on the money, though. What he couldn’t replace was all the effort and meticulous notes he had accumulated in that lab. Not to mention all the valuable equipment that he would need to find again, to re-equip himself. And he would need to find a new lab if he was to continue his research. He drew a breath of exasperation. God, there was so much more to do than he had initially realized.

His anxiety gave way to anger. This wasn’t an accident. This was arson—a deliberate attack on him and his work, which engulfed the entire building to make it look like an ordinary fire. He felt as though a hand had plunged into his chest, grabbed a hold of his heart, and begun twisting it. Saboteurs had torched the place. Of that, he had no doubt. And he felt sure he knew who had hired them.

Ever since his time in Paris, where he had been asked to join a secret society, he had received a steady stream of correspondence from Eiffel and members of other organizations pressing Nikola for his answer and commitment. His most recent contact had been a visit from Mr J. P. Morgan, and he had told the man what he’d told the others. He was honoured by the invitation, but he must respectfully decline.

Morgan had seemed polite and cordial about the matter. All the man had said at the time was that nothing more needed to be discussed between them—and then he’d departed. Tesla had thought that was the end of the matter, but apparently not. Looking back, he realized that he should have known better. His lab had been massive, humbled only by military counterparts. It had boasted the best equipment available to anyone without funding from the government or, as Tesla now realized, a secret society. If Morgan and his society couldn’t have Tesla and his lab, they had wanted to make sure no one would either.

Tesla raised his coffee to his lips with a shaking hand. He didn’t drink, only inhaled and set the cup back down. He wasn’t supposed to have survived the fire. He knew that now. Fortunately, his lab assistant had been there and had woken Tesla to alert him of the fire, or else Nikola might not have lived to grieve his loss.

The inventor’s brow furrowed with determination. He must confront Morgan, face-to-face, forcing him out of the darkness and making him pay for what he had done.

After another slow inhalation of the coffee’s steam, Tesla’s expression relaxed. He considered the possibility that it might not have been Morgan. If not Morgan or his people, then perhaps some other society had set their sights upon Nikola. He knew that Thomas, Eiffel, Samuel, and other industrial opportunists were members of secret societies. Edison had felt threatened by Tesla for some time, and Tesla had no doubt in his mind that his fellow inventor was more than capable of hiring someone to kill a rival and destroy their work.

Thomas knew that any advancement of technology by another could mean his inventions were made obsolete, and men like Edison, Morgan, and George Westinghouse, all of whom had bought Tesla’s designs and implemented them into their respective infrastructure, would continue profiting from Nikola’s previous work. They all wanted to control Tesla and his inventions, optimizing them for the benefit of their societies.

Tesla’s face hardened again. He wouldn’t let that happen. He would find a way to continue his work and expose these monsters for what they were, starting with Morgan, saboteur or not.

Tesla called the waiter over and asked for a glass of whiskey, which the waiter brought promptly. “You haven’t touched your coffee, sir. Is it to your liking?”

Tesla smiled. “Yes, it is. I wanted to smell it, as I find the smell of it gives me a sense of calm. Today I’m only going to inhale it.”

“Ah.” The waiter tried not to look confused by the notion. “Well, this is on the house then.”

“Thank you, young man.”

“I’ll bring your check directly, sir.”

Tesla threw back his whiskey, pulled out his wallet, and set down enough money to cover the bill and a modest tip before leaving with his diary.

J. P. Morgan’s Home
219 Madison Avenue
New York City, New York
March 18, 1895

J. P. Morgan sat in a plush armchair at his polished-oak desk, reading the newspaper. His moustache ruffled as he blew a flustered breath through his nose. His eyes were fixed on an article about the fire at 33-35 South Fifth Avenue. There was no indication of Tesla’s death. That, coupled with one of his informants telling him that he had seen Tesla at a restaurant during the hours proceeding the blaze, after the fire had thoroughly destroyed the entire six floors of the building plus the basement, proved to Morgan that his attempt on Tesla’s life had failed, and this displeased him greatly.

Damage control was all that Morgan could think about now. Surely, Tesla would suspect foul play, and after their most recent encounter, Morgan knew that he would top Tesla’s suspects list. Tesla would most likely try to out him or demand compensation through some sort of public medium, probably The New York Times—the more popular the publication, the better. The inventor had spent far too long with Edison not to have picked up a thing or two from the showy bastard. Tesla would want to humiliate Morgan and ruin him socially as well as financially, and he might even try to get him arrested. Morgan’s contacts would never allow that to happen, but his reputation and business would never survive such a social blow, and with that, he would no longer be considered useful to his society.

Morgan shuddered at the thought. No, that will not happen, he resolved. I won’t let it.

He stood abruptly, pacing up and down the room. His anger was boiling over; he was unable to be contained himself. He felt it as the taste of bile rose to his mouth, and he finally erupted. He kicked a chair hard, and the wood splintered under his foot. He was still too angry to feel the pain, but he would be limping for the next couple of days. The sound was loud, and he was glad the house was empty except for the servants working on the lower floors.

Morgan knew he had to find a way to keep Tesla quiet. Another attempt on his life was out of the question—at least for the time being. It would be too suspicious. But if he’d learned one thing from his dealings with Andrew Carnegie, money, even between mortal enemies, could be quite persuasive. His lips curled slightly upward.

Morgan sat at his deck again and set about arranging a private meeting with Nikola Tesla to discuss a gift of $150,000 to rebuild the inventor’s lab or to pay for something else Tesla wanted to do. He had mentioned that he was interested in moving to Colorado in a previous discussion. Maybe that would be something worth the investment he pondered.

Central Park
New York City, New York
March 1895, Same Day as the Fire

After leaving the restaurant, Tesla continued his contemplative walk around New York City and soon headed for Central Park. For as long as he had been in New York, he’d loved to go to parks and feed the pigeons, which gathered there. He often took home the injured ones and nursed them back to health, but he wouldn’t be doing that today or for quite some time—not until he could find a new laboratory. Still, he could at least enjoy the birds’ company and clear his mind for a while.

Tesla stopped at a bakery along the way and bought a loaf of bread to share with the pigeons. When he reached Central Park, he walked straight to his favourite bench and was immediately surrounded by the creatures, which so many others considered to be a nuisance. It was as though they recognized him, fluttering and landing close to the man.

He broke off a piece of bread and gently tossed some crumbs from it, alternating between feeding it to his winged friends and taking bites himself. With all the stress, coffee, and alcohol coursing through him, Nikola knew that he needed to eat something substantial. He hadn’t felt a desire for any of the food at the restaurant, but the freshly baked bread had smelled too good to resist.

He allowed his mind to wander as he watched his feathered friends hop from crumb to crumb. There had to be something he could do. He had been designing high-frequency oscillators for electro-therapy and other uses; he knew he had to strike the iron while it was still hot, but he couldn’t do that without access to a lab.

As much as it pained Tesla to consider this, Thomas had offered to loan him one of his labs in the past. Perhaps the old dog would do the same now. It would by no means be a permanent solution, but it would help him until he found somewhere else to conduct his experiments.

He sighed, and a couple of the pigeons looked at him with tilted heads as if to ask him what was wrong. There was still the matter of money. He had lived quite comfortably up to this point, but he had lost a great deal in the fire. He must somehow replace all his lab equipment as well as personal belongings—especially clothing.

He knew how to eat on a minimal budget, but if he was to convince Edison to let him use one of his loaner labs, he knew he would have to make it “worthwhile” for Edison, and that usually meant giving the other inventor money or an idea.

For all that Tesla thought and said about his old colleague, he had to admit that Edison was a much shrewder businessman than he’d ever been. That gave Edison a sizable advantage over Tesla, and it was one that Tesla wasn’t quite sure he was able to remedy. He needed to get money, somehow.

A light bulb illuminated Tesla’s mind. He tossed a few final crumbs to the pigeons, rolled up the end of the paper bag holding the rest of his bread, and hurried out of the park. He looked around and hailed a carriage.

He soon arrived at the home of Brent Black, an investor he had been in regular contact with and who had shown great interest in Tesla and his inventions for some time. Tesla knocked on the door and waited. He took a moment to catch his reflection in the glass of the door but eventually became aware of his appearance. His hair was a mess, his clothes rumpled from the long day—not the best presentation for