Chapter 15: Oaths & Secrets (2)
The silence in the small attic room was absolute, broken only by the distant, muffled rattle of a late streetcar on Hudson Street.
Marek sat perfectly still on the edge of the bottom bunk, his eyes locked on the orange-backed twenty-dollar gold certificate resting on the drawer chest. His fingers were still twitching, hovering inches away from the crisp paper as if he expected it to turn into ash or fly away.
"You..." Marek’s voice was a dry, raspy whisper. He swallowed hard, his gaze slowly lifting to Ricky’s face. "Are you a wizard, Ricky? A conjurer? Like the men in the traveling shows?"
Ricky leaned against the dark wood of the window frame, a small, tired smile on his face. "Not a wizard, Marek. It’s similar, but not the same."
"Similar?" Marek’s brow furrowed, his voice rising a fraction before he caught himself and looked nervously toward the wooden door. "You just pulled twenty dollars out of the empty air! I saw the blue light. I saw the paper spin. That is not similar to anything! It’s... it’s church-yard business. It’s magic."
"It’s complicated," Ricky said, his tone quiet, conversational, and grounded. He wanted to keep the boy from panicking. If Marek thought he was dealing with some kind of demonic trick, he’d be out the window and down the fire escape before the streetlamps went out. "I didn’t make the money out of nothing, Marek. I can’t do that. I can’t just wish for a million dollars and have it appear."
Marek blinked, his hand finally dropping to his knee. "Then where did it come from?"
"Think of it like an invisible vault," Ricky explained, translating the digital complexity of the Ledger into terms a kid from 1910 could grasp. "A bank. But it’s a bank that only I can see, and only I can open. The money I put in there stays there until I need to pull it out. It’s perfectly safe. No government can touch it, no gang can rob it, and no copper can slide his fingers into the drawer."
Marek stared at him, his analytical, street-smart mind trying to process the concept. "An invisible bank... but how does a bank help us if we have no trade? If we aren’t earning, the vault stays empty."
"That’s the thing," Ricky said. "It’s not just a bank. It’s also a shop. I’ll show you. Give me a dollar."
Marek hesitated. His hand went instinctively to his waistcoat pocket, his fingers wrapping around the small roll of silver coins they had worked so hard to earn on Mr. Vance’s boat.
He looked at Ricky, his eyes filled with a sudden, cautious doubt. "A dollar? If this disappears into the air and doesn’t come back, Ricky, I’m sleeping with my boots on tonight."
"Just trust me," Ricky said.
With a slow, reluctant motion, Marek pulled a heavy silver Morgan dollar from his pocket. The metal clinked softly against his thumb before he reached out and placed it in Ricky’s open palm.
Ricky took the coin. He closed his eyes for a split second, mentally summoning the deposit interface.
In the dim light of the attic, the pale blue, semi-transparent square outline materialized over Ricky’s hands. To Marek, who couldn’t see the interface, Ricky was simply holding the coin in his palm.
Then, Ricky pushed his hand forward.
The moment the silver dollar crossed into the invisible deposit zone, a soft, pleasant hum vibrated through the room. The solid silver coin seemed to soften, turning into a silent stream of tiny, glowing blue sparks that floated upward before dissolving into the ceiling.
Marek let out a sharp gasp, scrambling back onto the mattress until his shoulders hit the wooden frame. He stared at Ricky’s empty hand, his face turning pale. "Jesus... it’s gone. It just... it turned into blue smoke."
"It’s in the vault," Ricky said, his voice calm. "Now, what’s your favorite thing to eat? If you could have anything right now, what would it be?"
Marek snapped his mouth shut, his chest heaving as he tried to calm his racing heart. He looked at Ricky, entirely bewildered. "To eat? Now? I... I don’t know. The Hamburg steak sandwich. The one they sell from the wagon down by the ferry slips. With the sweet, fried onions and the buttered rye."
Ricky nodded. He closed his eyes and opened the Ledger Shop, navigating to the Provisions tab. He scrolled past the raw grains, the barrels of salted pork, and the wholesale sugar until he found the prepared food category. He ran a search for Hamburg steak sandwich.
A small description window popped up in his mind.
To Ricky, an eighteen-year-old from 2026, the image on the screen was instantly recognizable. It was a hamburger—a thick, juicy beef patty served between two thick slices of grilled rye bread. In 1910, the word "hamburger" was still relatively new, mostly referred to as a Hamburg steak sandwich by the working class.
Ricky checked the price: $0.08.
Eight cents.
"Marek," Ricky asked, keeping his eyes closed. "How much does one of those steak sandwiches cost at the ferry wagon?"
"Fifteen cents," Marek said, his voice still shaking slightly. "A nickel more if you want the extra butter and the cabbage."
Ricky smiled. He mentally pressed the word Purchase.
A quiet, crystalline chime rang in his ears.
[ LEDGER SHOP — TRANSACTION COMPLETE ]
Purchased: Prepared Hamburg Steak Sandwich (Qty: 1)
Cost: $0.08
Daily Purchasing Capacity: $0.08 / $200.00
Tip: You may permanently upgrade your Daily Purchasing Capacity by investing System Balance.
Directly below, another prompt appeared:
Deliver to:
[Dimensional Inventory]
or
[Deploy Locally (5m Radius)]
Ricky’s eyes widened slightly as he read the words. Dimensional Inventory? He looked at the status line: Volume: 0 m³ / 30 m³. He didn’t know exactly how large thirty cubic meters was—maybe the size of a small delivery van or a storage shed—but the idea of a weightless, invisible warehouse in his head was staggering.
He selected Deploy Locally, targeting a clean sheet of brown butcher paper that Mrs. O’Connell had left on the small chest of drawers.
Marek watched, his eyes wide.
A faint, circular ripple—like a stone dropped into a still pond—shimmered in the air just above the dresser. It lasted for only a fraction of a second.
Then, with a soft, heavy thump, a perfectly wrapped package of rough greaseproof paper materialized on the wood.
The rich, intoxicating scent of fried beef, sweet caramelized onions, and hot buttered rye bread exploded into the cold attic room. It was so intense, so fresh, that Ricky’s stomach let out a loud, involuntary growl.
Marek didn’t move. He sat frozen, staring at the steaming paper package as if it were a ghost. "It... it smells.. delicious." he whispered.
Ricky stepped over, his boots quiet on the pine boards. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his hand. He mentally withdrew the change from Marek’s dollar.
A silver half-dollar, three silver dimes, and two bronze Indian-head pennies materialized cleanly in his palm with a soft, metallic clink.
"Here’s your change," Ricky said, holding the coins out to Marek. "Ninety-two cents. The sandwich only cost eight cents in my shop."
Marek slowly reached out, his hand trembling as he took the silver and copper coins. He pocketed them automatically, his eyes never leaving the warm, greasy paper on the dresser. He stepped forward, his fingers hesitating before he gently touched the wrapping.
"It’s hot," Marek breathed. "It’s actually hot."
"Go ahead," Ricky said, gesturing to the sandwich. "Eat it before it gets cold."
Marek carefully peeled back the rough greaseproof paper. Inside sat a massive, thick Hamburg steak, perfectly seared and covered in a mountain of golden, sweet-smelling fried onions, sandwiched between two thick, glistening slices of toasted rye. It looked better than any street-vendor food Ricky had seen since arriving in 1910.
Marek took a massive, hesitant bite. He chewed slowly, his eyes closing as the warm grease and savory beef flavor hit his tongue. His chest rose and fell in a long, shuddering sigh of pure, unadulterated satisfaction.
"My God," Marek whispered around a mouthful of food. He wiped a drop of butter from his chin with his sleeve. "Ricky... this is the most delicious thing I have ever eaten. The bread... it’s not stale. It’s soft. Like it came out of the oven five minutes ago."
"It did," Ricky said, sitting back down on the wooden crate. He crossed his legs, his modern, analytical mind framing the entire situation with cold, precise logic. "But here’s the important part, Marek. The vendor at the ferry wharf buys his beef, his bread, and his onions from a middleman. He pays wholesale prices, plus shipping, plus whatever markup the distributor wants to tack on. That’s why he has to charge you fifteen cents just to make a tiny profit."
Marek took another bite, listening intently as he chewed.
"But in my shop," Ricky continued, pointing to the sandwich, "that exact same food costs eight cents. No distributors. No shipping delays. No railroad strikes. No taxes."
Ricky leaned forward, his gray eyes locking onto Marek’s with a quiet, intense focus.
"This morning, we walked Bleecker Street. Henry Whitaker told us he can’t keep iron nails or flat steel files on his shelves because the wholesale houses in Brooklyn are squeezing him. They make him buy by the half-ton or they charge him a premium that eats his entire profit. The baker can’t get coal because the rail lines are backed up. The grocer is paying double for bruised apples because the Italians control the carts."
Ricky tapped his temple.
"We don’t have a horse yet, Marek. We don’t have a brick warehouse or a shipping manifest yet. But we have an infinite supply of perfect, factory-cost goods right here. We can go to Whitaker tomorrow, take his order for a hundred-weight of nails and a dozen steel files, buy them from my shop for pennies, and deliver them to his door the next afternoon. We can charge him less than the big distributors, and we don’t have to force him to buy a ton."
Marek stopped chewing. He stared at the remaining half of his sandwich, the sheer, staggering weight of the realization finally crashing through his mind. His eyes widened, a sudden, bright spark of understanding replacing the fear.
"We..." Marek swallowed hard, his voice dropping. "We don’t need a job, Ricky. We can supply the whole street."
"Exactly," Ricky said, a sharp, confident grin spreading across his face. "We aren’t competing for wages anymore, Marek. We’re going to build our own empire."