Parliament reconvened two weeks after the Southsea test, though no one in Westminster pretended it was an ordinary session. Members of both Houses had returned early from their recesses, summoned by letters that hinted only at "urgent developments concerning national security and communication." By midmorning, the corridors outside the debating chamber were filled with aides carrying sheaves of documents, clerks preparing transcripts, and small knots of ministers speaking in hushed tones.

Phillip arrived quietly, stepping out of the carriage with Henry at his side. They crossed the plaza between the statues without ceremony. No crowd greeted them, but dozens of eyes followed their steps. Phillip felt the weight of it, though he did not slow. He had walked battlefields of machinery and accidents. Parliament was a different kind of battlefield, but a battlefield all the same.

Inside the lobby, they were met by Sir Roland Price, one of the more moderate MPs sympathetic to industrial development. His face showed a mixture of relief and tension.

"You came," Price said. "Good. I feared the Admiralty would keep you locked in Portsmouth."

"They released me as soon as the report was confirmed," Phillip said. "Has the House seen it yet?"

"Parts. Enough to argue about it, though not enough to understand it." Price sighed. "You know how these sessions go."

Phillip knew. Parliament excelled at caution, hesitation, and debate. They were less skilled at moving quickly.

Price lowered his voice. "Some members fear this telegraph system gives the Admiralty too much influence. Others worry you are building an infrastructure that only the Navy will use. And a persistent few argue the entire thing is an untested experiment."

Henry shifted beside Phillip. "They can read the test notes. We documented every detail."

"They have," Price said, "but some people fear what they do not control."

A bell rang down the hall. The session was beginning. Price nodded toward the chamber doors. "Best get inside. You will be called before long."

Phillip stepped into the visitors' gallery, where a reserved seat had been arranged for him. Below, the benches of Parliament were already filling. Ministers settled into their rows. Backbenchers shuffled papers. The Speaker rose and called the session to order. Light streamed through high windows, dust drifting lazily in the beams.

The Home Secretary was the first to speak. He read the formal summary outlining the purpose of the session: a proposal to commission a nationwide telegraph network, binding together major cities, ports, rail hubs, and coastal defenses into a single communication grid.

He read each line with clinical precision, but the room stirred. Men leaned toward one another to whisper. Some faces were eager. Others wary.

When he finished, the Speaker called for debate.

Lord Ashford, a senior peer known for his skepticism of new inventions, rose first. His voice carried easily in the chamber.

"We are told," Ashford said, "that wires of delicate metal can now run across our country and instantly transmit signals that men shall interpret as words. We are told that such things will improve governance, transportation, commerce, and defense. But I ask this House: at what cost? And with what certainty?"

Several members nodded.

Ashford continued. "We have relied upon dispatch riders, semaphore stations, and naval flags for decades. They work. They are reliable. They require no arcane apparatus that may corrode or break in storms. Who is to say this telegraph will not fail us when we need it most?"

Henry leaned closer to Phillip and muttered, "He speaks like he has never seen a battery in his life."

Phillip did not respond. He knew the criticisms would come, and more would follow.

Another MP stood. "What concerns me is not the device itself," said Mr. Langford of Surrey, "but the speed of this proposal. The telegraph has existed for mere weeks in practical use. Weeks. And now we are urged to lace the kingdom with it."

Voices rose in agreement.

Langford pointed toward the naval delegation seated in the special gallery. "The Admiralty already has its wires on the coast. They have acted with admirable efficiency. But Parliament must decide whether civilian lines should advance at the same pace. Accelerated development often leads to waste and confusion."

Price rose from his seat. "The gentleman forgets the railway tragedy in Shropshire. Lives were lost because messages arrived late. A telegraph line could have prevented it."

Ashford replied, "Tragedies happen with or without machines. We must not use grief as a lever to force new laws."

Price shot back, "We should use reason. And reason tells us that faster communication saves lives."

The Speaker tapped his gavel for order. The tension thickened. Phillip watched quietly. He knew the House would not move unless they fully understood the stakes.

The War Office Minister rose next. His expression was grave.

"Members of this House are not aware of certain developments along our coast. Since these details concern national security, I cannot disclose them fully here. But I will say this: the Admiralty has confirmed foreign vessels near our waters. They may be scouts. They may be something more. The Navy requires the ability to share information instantly. We cannot rely on outdated systems when the world changes around us."

The chamber stirred again. Even Ashford frowned.

"These sightings," the minister continued, "prove that the telegraph network is not a luxury. It is a necessity."

For a moment, silence fell heavy over the benches.

Finally, the Speaker stood and addressed the gallery. "Lord Phillip Wellington. The House requests your testimony."

Phillip rose. For a brief moment, he felt every gaze lock onto him. He descended the steps and entered the chamber floor. His boots echoed softly against the polished boards. When he reached the central stand, he rested one hand on the wooden railing and surveyed the room calmly.

"Lord Wellington," the Speaker said. "You designed the telegraph system now in use by the Admiralty. The House wishes to understand its purpose, potential, and limitations."

Phillip nodded.

"The telegraph," he began, "is not magic. It is not unpredictable. It is not fragile when built correctly. It is a tool. A simple tool that carries electric signals through copper wire, faster than any horse, ship, or semaphore tower."

Some MPs leaned forward. Others folded their arms.

Phillip continued. "We tested the system across two miles inland. Then across coastal spans under wind pressure. Then between Southsea and the East Battery. Each test succeeded. Even when the signal weakened, we restored it quickly using improved insulation and additional batteries."

A few murmurs rose from the benches.

"The telegraph allows communication that is not limited by daylight, weather, distance, or manpower. It reduces travel time for messages from hours to seconds. It eliminates confusion between distant stations. It enables authorities to respond quickly to danger, disruption, or opportunity."

He met Ashford's gaze directly.

"It will not replace all known systems. Horses will still carry mail. Flags will still fly on ships. But this device ensures that Britain is never blind."

Ashford stood sharply. "Blind? We are not blind now."

Phillip shook his head. "Sir, I stood over the wreckage of two trains that collided because a warning arrived minutes too late. The problem was not negligence. The problem was distance. Messages cannot run faster than the legs that carry them. The telegraph removes that limitation."

Ashford opened his mouth again, but Phillip continued before he could speak.

"And as for national security, I will not reveal classified details. But I will say this: speed decides survival. The faster nation wins. The telegraph gives Britain speed unlike anything we have possessed before."

The War Office Minister nodded. Several MPs exchanged uneasy glances.

Phillip moved on. "The proposal before you is not for a fully completed network within a year. It is for a phased system. The first phase would link major railway hubs, coastal points, and cities. The second phase would extend into rural regions. The third phase would integrate with governance and commerce."

Langford stood. "And what would this cost?"

Phillip answered without hesitation. "Less than the cost of inaction. Every month we delay, the risk of another railway tragedy increases. Every month we hesitate, foreign rivals learn about this technology. If they build their own systems before ours is complete, we lose the advantage."

The chamber quieted again.

Price rose. "This system binds our kingdom together. Communication between ministers, governors, naval officers, and rail stations will be nearly instant. Trade will accelerate. Crisis response will improve. There is no argument against progress that outweighs these benefits."

Debate ignited once more. For nearly an hour the House discussed costs, materials, workers, infrastructure, regulation, and oversight. Phillip answered questions with patience. Henry provided notes when needed. Gradually, the tone shifted. Skepticism softened. Hesitation gave way to cautious interest.

Finally, the Speaker called for order.

"The House will vote on the Telegraph Expansion Act."

The clerk prepared the rolls.

The Speaker raised his hand. "Those in favour?"

A wave of voices filled the chamber.

"Those opposed?"

Far fewer responded.

The Speaker lowered his hand. "The measure passes."

The final count was decisive.

Phillip let out a slow breath. Henry grinned at him. Price clapped his shoulder warmly.

The Telegraph Expansion Act had passed.

Outside Westminster, the sky was bright and clear. Carriages rolled past. The river shimmered behind the buildings. It felt strange to see an ordinary day continue after such a profound shift. But that was how progress always worked. Quiet. Steady. Unstoppable.

Henry stepped beside him. "Well, Phillip. Parliament has given its answer."

Phillip looked toward the horizon, imagining lines of copper stretching across hills and roads, binding towns and forts and cities into one connected whole.

"They endorsed the system," he said. "Now we build it."

Henry tucked his notebook under his arm. "Where do we start?"

Phillip did not hesitate. "Everywhere."

And he walked down the steps of Westminster, ready to begin.

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