Based on his visions, Francisco began by sketching the train as he had seen it in the future—sleek, narrow, and sharp, like a dart cutting through the land. He drew it again and again, refining its shape, streamlining the front, narrowing the body, imagining how the wind would break against its iron skin. On paper, it was magnificent.

In reality, it was impossible.

He realized this slowly, with the creeping dread of a man who knows the truth but keeps hoping the numbers will lie. Iron and steel, as they existed now, simply could not support such a design. Even setting aside engineering limitations, the raw material alone made it absurd. Britain—glorious, smoke-crowned Britain, with its furnaces burning day and night—produced barely a hundred tons of steel a year. To build even a single machine of this scale, he would need to purchase nearly all of it for three years straight. No empire, no matter how powerful, would allow that.

And the engine itself was worse.

He ran the calculations again, jaw clenched, ink smearing beneath his fingers. The steam engines of today—marvels though they were—would need forty, perhaps fifty times their current strength to move such a mass at speed. The best engines of Boulton & Watt could barely manage mines and pumps. To propel this steel beast across land? It was fantasy. Not yet. Not in this century.

The candle beside him flickered, casting long shadows across the walls of the rented room. Outside, the muffled noise of London seeped in through the shutters: distant carts, drunken laughter, the constant low roar of a city that never truly slept.

Catalina leaned closer, curiosity etched across her tired face. Dark circles shadowed her eyes; neither of them had slept well in days.

"What happened?" she asked gently. "Is that the blueprint of the machine you want to build?"

Francisco hesitated, then turned the pages toward her.

She studied the drawings carefully. What she saw made her breath catch—a massive steam-driven behemoth, its front sloped and glassed like the head of a spear, iron plates layered upon iron plates. Measurements crowded the margins, each more intimidating than the last.

Her eyes drifted down to the figures scribbled in the corner: weight, pressure, fuel consumption.

"…This thing," she said slowly, "would require half of South America just to build."

Francisco gave a hollow laugh. "At least."

He leaned back against the table, rubbing his temples. "Yes. This is what I saw. Or something like it. But it's impossible—completely impossible. And that's not even the worst part."

He flipped to another page, revealing drawings of rails.

"I based this on the mine rails we saw near Newcastle," he continued. "Wooden rails reinforced with iron strips. They work well enough for horses pulling carts. But for a machine weighing dozens—perhaps hundreds—of tons? The wood would splinter within days. We would need rails made entirely of steel."

He looked at her, frustration raw in his eyes.

"And steel is too rare. Too expensive. Even Britain wouldn't be so wasteful—not with war always looming, not with steel needed for cannons, ships, tools. At today's prices and production levels, it would be cheaper to lay rails of gold."

Catalina blinked, then chuckled despite herself, rolling her eyes. "So," she said, folding her arms, "to make your dream real, you need to produce more steel—and improve the steam engine."

Francisco nodded. "Exactly."

He paused, then straightened, a familiar spark returning to his gaze.

"It's improbable," he admitted. "But not directionless. Göttingen has nearly reached Britain's level in steam engine design. If we start small—very small—we could build a prototype. Something modest. A single wagon. A demonstration. With the university's support, we could develop it step by step."

His voice grew firmer as the idea took shape.

"And when we return to New Granada, we replicate the process there."

Catalina smiled, though there was bitterness in it. "So more money," she said dryly. "You haven't even finished paying for the supplies for your grandfather's army, and you're already spending future profits."

Francisco coughed awkwardly. "I know. But this machine—if it works—would be useful for any country. Especially New Granada. With something like this, we could defend the entire northern Andes far more effectively."

She shook her head slowly. Other women waited for their husbands to return with money, with stability. She spent her days making sure hers didn't bankrupt them chasing visions of the future.

And yet…

He was good at making money. Too good, perhaps. That softened her irritation, if only a little.

The journey to London was slow, but steady. Ten days of rattling carriages, damp inns, muddy roads, and restless nights. When they finally arrived, the city greeted them with smoke and noise and the sharp scent of coal. Chimneys belched black clouds into a gray sky. Horses clattered over stone streets slick with grime and rain.

They rented rooms at a modest inn and spent the night recovering. The East India Company informed them that the inspection of the weapons would take place in two days.

With unexpected free time, Francisco followed Director Christian Heyne's advice and decided to visit the library of the Royal Society. Heyne had provided a letter of recommendation, heavy with seals and formal phrasing.

Francisco gathered his blueprints and notebooks and stepped into the city.

He deliberately walked through the industrial districts first. Workshops lined the streets—blacksmiths hammering iron, foundries glowing red behind open doors, apprentices hauling coal and slag. The air was thick with heat and smoke, the sound of metal striking metal echoing like a heartbeat.

It felt as though the entire country was alive.

Lost in thought, Francisco turned a corner too quickly and collided with another man. Papers exploded into the air, fluttering down like startled birds.

"Watch where you're going, lad," the man said sharply.

Francisco startled and immediately nodded. "My apologies, sir. I was distracted by the workshops."

He dropped to one knee and began gathering the scattered papers. As he did, his hand froze. Among the fallen sheets were maps and notes marked with symbols he recognized from military manuals.

He looked up at the man, suddenly tense. "Sir… is it all right for me to see these documents? I don't wish to cause any trouble with the army."

The soldier followed his gaze and let out a short chuckle. "Don't worry. If they were truly sensitive, I wouldn't be carrying them alone through the streets of London."

As he spoke, his eyes drifted to Francisco's own papers. He picked one up, studying the unfamiliar lines and measurements.

"This is yours?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "A machine of steel… meant to move on rails?"

Francisco felt his ears grow warm. "Yes, sir. At least in theory. I know it's unrealistic—there isn't enough steel in all of Europe to build something like this."

The man nodded thoughtfully. "True enough." He tapped the paper once before handing it back. "Still, it's an impressive idea. Most young men dream of glory or rank. You dream of machines."

Francisco managed a small smile. "Perhaps in the future, steel will be produced in greater quantities. Then it may not seem so far-fetched."

The soldier regarded him for a moment, then gave a slight nod, clearly dismissing the concept as the harmless ambition of youth. They finished exchanging papers and straightened.

"Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Wellesley," the man said, offering a brief bow.

Francisco returned it. "Francisco Gómez. Student at Göttingen."

"Pleasure," Wellesley replied. "Perhaps we'll meet again."

He turned and walked away. Francisco watched his back for a moment, curious, then dismissed the encounter. The name meant nothing to him. He could not know that, in twenty-two years, it would echo across Europe after the fall of the mighty Emperor Napoleon—but that was a story for another time.

With Director Christian's letter of recommendation, Francisco gained access to the Royal Society's library. He spent the next two days there, surrounded by the smell of old paper and wax, searching for ways to adapt his designs to the limits of his era.

On the third day, a messenger from the East India Company arrived.

Francisco, Catalina, and the students from the faculties of philosophy and metallurgy followed him to the docks. The port was alive with shouts, creaking ropes, and the sharp tang of salt and tar. An employee waited for them at the quay.

"Mr. Francisco?" the man asked, studying him closely. "Adam Stewart. I've been sent to guide you to the shipment. I assume these are the students who will be inspecting the weapons?"

"That's right," Francisco replied. "Given the scale of the purchase, I couldn't examine everything alone."

Stewart nodded, still visibly impressed. Ten thousand muskets, fifty cannons, and two frigates—few private buyers placed orders of that size.

As the students dispersed among the ships, Francisco asked quietly, "Do you already have a route to the Gulf of Urabá? I heard Spain has reinforced the area because of the fanatics in Antioquia."

Stewart nodded. "We're not heading to the Gulf of Urabá. Your grandfather—Mr. Krüger, I believe—is currently in San Andrés. They're using the island as a rear base for operations in New Granada. The last report I received said he moved troops toward the gulf to strike the fanatics from behind… and to support your family."

Francisco stiffened. "You have information about my father?" he asked quickly. "Can you tell me what you know?"

Stewart studied him with a puzzled expression. "You didn't know? Your father engaged them directly. He used cavalry to break their lines and drove them back toward Santa Fe."

Francisco let out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. "I only know what Spain claims—that they expelled them from Medellín."

Stewart sneered. "Those men fled to Cáceres. And for what it's worth, the viceroy still hasn't sent a single regiment."

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