The Laboratory was not rely a building; it was an ultimatum of gray stone raised against the Saxon sky.
While Göttingen slept beneath its timber-frad houses of oak and red-tiled roofs, Francisco’s structure stood like a fragnt of the future embedded in the heart of the eighteenth century. There was no trace of the organic warmth of German architecture here. Instead, a blind, monolithic mass of Roman cent rose from the ground—a slurry of volcanic ash and quickli that seed to swallow the pale northern light rather than reflect it.
To the left stood the rotunda dedicated to Catalina and her so-called "harem" of calculators.
It was an exact, though smaller, replica of Agrippa’s Pantheon in Ro. The walls, poured in a single block without joints or seams, supported a coffered do that seed to defy gravity itself. At its center, an oculus ten feet wide allowed the cold Göttingen air and the distant light of the stars to fall vertically onto a bronze sextant fixed to the marble floor.
It was a space of absolute silence—a whispering gallery where the strange laws of acoustics allowed Anna to dictate coordinates from one end of the hall and be heard with spectral clarity at the opposite side.
Here, they did not manufacture alcohol.
They manufactured ti... and destiny.
What surprised the director even more was the presence of guards at the entrance. They were not soldiers, nor university servants, but the husbands, fathers, and brothers of the won who worked there. Francisco had hired them deliberately, giving employnt to the families of the female scholars.
It served two purposes.
First, it allowed the poor families of Göttingen to earn honest wages. Second, it ensured that no one could accuse the laboratory of improper conduct.
It was, perhaps, the only reason many families had allowed their daughters to work there at all. They did not believe in their daughters’ scientific ambitions—but they were not foolish enough to reject easy money.
"Excuse ," Christian said politely to the old man standing by the door. "I need to reach Francisco’s workshop. Could you tell where it is?"
The guard studied him carefully.
"And who might you be, sir?"
"I am Christian Gottlob Heyne, Director of Göttingen. I need to discuss several matters with the student Francisco."
The man’s posture imdiately relaxed.
"Ah—Director Heyne, sir. Of course." He gestured toward a neighboring structure. "Francisco works in that building beside this one. His own servants guard the entrance. Just tell them who you are, and they’ll gladly let you pass."
Christian nodded and continued walking.
When he entered the second building, he stopped in quiet astonishnt.
Francisco’s workshop was a world entirely different from Catalina’s silent rotunda.
Where the observatory was calm and mathematical, this place breathed with heat, noise, and movent. The air slled of hot iron, charcoal, and the sharp tallic bite of ozone.
A small forge roared near one side of the building, placed beside a massive archway that allowed heavy iron fras to be dragged outside to cool before being brought back in for assembly.
Assistants—young, soot-covered students from the university—moved constantly through the workshop like shadows, feeding the fire, adjusting copper wires, and tightening brass screws.
At the center of it all stood Francisco.
He was hunched over a long wooden trestle table, his hands blackened with graphite and machine oil. When he noticed Christian approaching, he straightened slightly and wiped his fingers on a cloth.
"Director," he said with a small smile, "I’m glad you’ve co."
Then he stepped aside.
Behind him stood a strange machine: a skeletal structure of articulated wooden arms and iron joints, suspended by pulleys and counterweights. It looked almost like the bones of a chanical giant waiting to move.
"I was surprised when I heard about the French telegraph machine," Francisco muttered, his voice rough from the smoke of the forge. "Chappe’s telegraph is a remarkable invention... but it has several problems. The most obvious is its dependence on daylight. In darkness or fog, it becos useless."
He stood up and wiped his hands on a rag before gesturing toward the contraption behind him.
It resembled the French semaphore system, but Francisco had heavily modified the crossbeams. Instead of simple wooden arms, they were fitted with polished mirrors and hollow lanterns fueled by a pressurized mixture of his own high-proof Aguardiente.
"I’m applying the Argand lamp principle to the arms," Francisco explained, pointing to the silver reflectors. "With the purity of the spirit we can distill in our stills, these lamps will burn with a bright white fla—strong enough to cut through even the thickest Saxon mist. That ans signals won’t be limited to daylight. We can transmit ssages at night as well."
Christian leaned closer, studying the intricate chanisms. Francisco had also replaced the heavy ropes normally used to move the semaphore arms with thin copper cabling connected to a set of compact gears. The movents would be faster and more precise.
It wasn’t rely a copy.
It was a refinent.
"If we place these on top of the Roman cent dos," Francisco continued, his eyes glowing with the familiar fever of invention, "we could create a continuous line of sight stretching from the Harz Mountains all the way to the coast."
He paused for a mont.
"I imagine that should satisfy the governnt of Hannover. If they expect anything more... I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what else to improve." He shrugged lightly. "At least I tried to maximize the profits of our industries, Director. The more money we generate, the harder it becos for Hannover to interfere with us."
Christian chuckled softly at the thought of his students building inventions while simultaneously funding the independence of the university.
"Do you think it will work?" he asked. "Considering our current situation with the Electorate, I worry they may try to create trouble over the project. You know how they can be."
Christian smiled calmly.
"Do not worry. Even if they are displeased, there is little they can do. Thanks to the situation surrounding you, Göttingen now enjoys a degree of autonomy. Unless they are mad enough to burn the entire city to the ground, they will maintain appearances."
He folded his hands behind his back.
"And from what I hear, Britain is far more anxious than we are. The French are already deploying Chappe’s telegraph, attempting to extend the line all the way to Paris from the frontier. No one yet knows how effective it will be—but if your version proves superior..."
He paused with a faint smile.
"France may very well beco jealous."
Francisco grinned.
"And if they beco jealous, they might buy our Roman cent and our alcohol in order to copy it."
He laughed quietly.
"That way we win twice."
Christian frowned slightly.
"I doubt the Electorate will allow you to sell such materials to France. They would probably impose a prohibition."
Francisco only shrugged.
"In New Granada we also produce those sa materials," he said calmly. "If Hannover forbids it, the French will simply approach my father instead."
His smile widened a little.
"To be honest, that might work even better for . The French already helped the United States once. Perhaps they could be persuaded to help us as well."
Carlos shrugged lightly.
"In New Granada we produce those sa materials," he said. "If Hannover forbids the trade, the French will simply look to my father instead. That might actually work better for ."
He smiled faintly.
"The French already helped the United States once. Perhaps they could be persuaded to do the sa for us."
Christian fell silent.
The possibility was disturbingly real. Perhaps he should attempt to persuade the stubborn old officials of the Electorate not to impose such a prohibition. Yet, knowing the British influence over Hannover, it was likely the ban would be enacted regardless.
After all, if it ant slowing the French, Britain would gladly sacrifice Hannover’s profits.
Christian cleared his throat.
"Very well, forget about that for now. There is another matter we must discuss."
Francisco looked up from the table.
"Your grandfather has died."
Christian studied his student’s face carefully, searching for a reaction—and he found one imdiately.
Francisco straightened, alarm flashing in his eyes.
"Wait... my grandfather Krugger died?" he asked quickly. "What happened? Was there so kind of attack from the Spaniards, or trouble with the fanatics? Are the German soldiers who went with him safe? What about my father? My sister?"
The questions ca rapidly, one after another.
Christian raised his hands quickly.
"No, no—not Krugger," he said. "Your other grandfather. The Duke of Lerma."
The tension drained from Francisco’s shoulders almost instantly.
"Oh," he said quietly. "That’s... sad, I suppose."
The difference in his tone was unmistakable.
Christian blinked in surprise.
"I did not expect your relationship with him to be so... distant."
Francisco shrugged.
"It isn’t distant," he replied calmly. "It simply doesn’t exist."
He leaned back slightly against the workbench.
"I never knew the man. I don’t even rember eting him. Whenever my father spoke about him, there was always sothing... complicated in his expression. So I cannot exactly mourn soone I never truly knew."
He paused for a mont.
"Still, I should write to my father. He will probably grieve for him."
Christian nodded slowly.
"That is precisely why I ca to tell you," he said. "Your uncle has not officially announced the Duke’s death yet. We believe he intends to keep it secret for so ti."
Francisco frowned slightly.
"And why would he do that?"
"We suspect he may attempt to lure you back to Spain," Christian replied. "Perhaps through a letter, or so other sche. You should be cautious. Do not trust anything that arrives from the House of Lerma without verification."
Francisco nodded solemnly.
He understood well enough how such matters could unfold. The histories in Göttingen’s library were full of stories about succession disputes—brothers betraying brothers, uncles poisoning nephews, entire families destroyed over titles and inheritance.
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