Power thrummed under the chandeliers like a live wire. If money had a scent, it would have blended tonight with polished walnut, aged wine, and the faint ozone of cutting-edge electronics humming discreetly behind velvet walls. Henry took it all in with a quiet smile. This wasn't merely a reception; it was a battlefield disguised in silk and etiquette.
He swirled the wine in his glass and watched the crowd. Every major conglomerate had shown up in force—men and women whose signatures could tilt markets and whose phone calls could redirect policy. A stomp from any one of them made an industry jump. And yet, they were all here together, jockeying for angle and advantage beneath the same roof. That, in itself, said everything.
"President," Izzy murmured over his encrypted channel, her voice a soft chime in his ear, "should I push the updated roster?"
"Send it," Henry replied.
Data rippled across his wrist display, a clean torrent of names and affiliations. Izzy's scan was fast—no flourish, no lag, just instant clarity.
> Military delegation: twenty-five.
Federal executive officials: twelve.
State and regional authorities across the continent: fifty-two.
No ceremonial fluff, no empty titles. These were decision-makers with real pens and real budgets, people who could take a promising prototype and turn it into a thousand-unit contract with a single nod.
Henry's smile deepened. This summit wasn't a friendly showcase; it was a pre-procurement research meeting. The glitter was simply there to make the pill go down smoother. Somewhere behind the orchestral music and the networking, checklists were already being ticked: reliability, integration, logistics, security hardening, compliance, cost curves over five-year horizons. He could almost hear the quiet math of government procurement: buy, test, scale, dominate.
"Let me guess," Henry said softly, "the richest customer present doesn't sit at any private table with a logo."
Izzy's eyes glowed faintly blue. "Correct. The United States government remains the world's most well-funded buyer across defense, aerospace, bio-security, and frontier tech. Procurement scope is… vast."
Henry let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "Vast. That's one word."
He didn't need Izzy to remind him of how fortunes changed when government orders arrived. Hammer Industries was the classic fable everyone here could quote: once a minor arms outfit, then hand-picked for a major military order, and—boom—overnight they were everywhere. Market cap multiplied. Warehouses expanded. Lobbyists appeared like flowers after rain. In only a few years, they became the number two military contractor in the United States, living in the long shadow of Stark Industries and still somehow basking in the sun.
Government selection is a catapult. One signature, and a small player becomes a pillar. Henry knew all of them knew it. That hungry gleam in their eyes wasn't about prestige booths or magazine covers; it was about getting on the shortlist.
Izzy's text ribboned across his display:
> "Rotational review policy confirmed. Every five years, supplier portfolios are re-evaluated to prevent technological stagnation. New entrants prioritized for trial slots where appropriate."
"So the clock struck midnight again," Henry said. "Perfect."
The cycle had returned; a fresh round of inspections and selections was starting now. This summit, in all its glamour, was the first gate. Marketing would do its little dance, but under the table, the metrics would be merciless and the scoring sheets unromantic. Many of the giants around him had prepared for months, even years, to stand here with polished decks and lab-fresh demos.
Tony Stark had come in person. That alone told the truth: this year mattered.
Henry swayed his wine gently. "If this is the stage, we'll perform."
Izzy's lips curled at the edges—the closest she got to grinning.
---
The lights shifted. Conversations softened as spotlights tracked toward the balcony on the second level. Three silhouettes stood above the crowd, the kind of figures who make a room obey without raising their voices.
The middle figure stepped forward, medals catching the light across a stern military uniform. Square jaw, controlled posture—the kind of face that never blinked during bad news.
Izzy placed IDs on Henry's display at once.
> General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross, U.S. Military.
Rank at present: Lieutenant General.
Portfolio influence: primary authority on defense procurement recommendations.
Project history: wide. Political gravity: heavy.
Henry glanced up, unsurprised. General Ross was the kind of man whose nod swung budgets like sledgehammers. In another timeline, another conflict, Henry remembered he'd become Secretary of State—high weight, higher stakes. Here and now, he held what mattered tonight: a decisive hand over military purchasing.
The figure to Ross's right leaned forward into the light. Clean suit, political smile, the cultivated confidence of a dynasty child.
> President of the New York State Council (fictionalized title in this continuity): scion of a storied political family, influence channel: legislative networks, state procurement liaisons, national fundraising corridors.
Public perception: charismatic, media-ready, establishment-backed.
The third figure didn't carry the same theatrical presence but radiated a quieter authority—the precision of street-level logistics, public safety, and real-world consequence.
> George Stacy, Chief of the New York Police Department.
Known affiliations: public integrity initiatives, tactical modernization, inter-agency operations.
(Parenthetical note: father of Gwen Stacy—but the crowd just calls him "Chief.")
Henry's eyes narrowed with appreciation. Army. Government. Police. The ecosystem of power was neatly personified. Tonight wasn't about startups and sizzle reels; it was about convincing these three archetypes that your technology made their worlds safer, faster, smarter—and accountable.
Izzy didn't need prompting. "Confirmed. These three serve as the summit's primary review committee. Their joint approval fast-tracks shortlisted candidates into deeper trials."
Bold light swept the floor as General Ross raised his glass.
"Welcome, all of you, to the World Technology Summit." His voice carried without strain. "Most of you know why you're here. You've spent the last five years building the future. We're here to decide how much of that future becomes… reality."
A ripple of restrained laughter. No one missed the meaning.
Ross lifted his glass higher. "Once this toast is done, the summit begins."
Glasses rose across the room like drawn sabers. No one wanted to be the one who drank late or refused at all. Executives who would happily devour each other's market share fell, for one synchronized second, into perfect military timing.
Henry alone let his wine linger. He rolled the liquid, inhaled the bouquet, and took a measured sip. Not defiant—just… deliberate. He didn't perform for optics. He never had.
Up on the balcony, Ross noticed. His eyes didn't harden; if anything, they sharpened. There was no offense there—only curiosity.
"Proceed to the rear conference hall," Ross said, lowering his glass. "We'll begin."
The staff moved like a well-rehearsed orchestra. The Hilton's reception half—reconfigured for soft politics and softer lighting—gave way to a press-theater build-out in the back: tiered seating, a seamless stage, embedded projection, isolated demo bays wired straight into sandboxed evaluators. Where the front room whispered deals, the back room measured them.
Ross and his counterparts turned to go. As the general walked, he murmured to his aide without breaking stride. "The young man who paused on the toast—who is he? I don't recognize him."
The aide scrolled quickly. "Henry, President of Vanderbuilt Technologies. First time at a summit of this scale."
"Vanderbuilt," Ross repeated, as if trying on the syllables. "We've crossed paths on paper."
They had. Last year, one of Ross's expeditionary commands tested a small suite from Vanderbuilt: autonomous tactical drones with adaptive targeting, infrared smart eyepieces that fused night-vision with local encrypted battlefield overlays. A modest order compared to giants like Stark, but the results were not modest.
The aide's summary flickered in Ross's palm, and he didn't need to read it again.
> Front-line lethality up ~20%.
Casualty exposures down >30%.
Operator satisfaction: unusually high.
Ross didn't grin—he wasn't the type—but the corner of his intensity tilted. "Results," he said. "I like results."
The aide nodded. "Public enthusiasm is noticeable too. Vanderbuilt has momentum among younger engineers and field operators."
A new voice chimed in from the other side—Chief George Stacy. "My daughter talks about them," he said with an easy smile. "I hear the name from academy recruits. Smart, clean interfaces. Nothing showy, just works."
Ross gave a noncommittal grunt. Praise never moved him as much as numbers did—but numbers had already spoken. He filed the reaction away. Curiosity deepened to interest.
"Let's see if they perform under lights," he said.
---
Back on the main floor, Tony Stark slipped into the hall with freshly repaired composure—collar straightened, expression smoothed, the earlier humiliation sanded down to a private growl. He wore confidence again like armor. Few noticed the sliver of tension in his jaw. Fewer still knew that J.A.R.V.I.S. remained offline, trapped, neutralized. For a man who had built his legend on iron that obeyed and code that sang, silence was the worst insult.
Henry clocked Tony's reentry through the corner of his eye. He didn't smirk. He didn't have to. Lessons were most effective when unannounced.
"Izzy," Henry said, eyes on the flow of people funneling toward the conference hall, "mark the committee's aides and attach open-source dossiers. Prior service, procurement history, risk tolerance, scandal audit—keep it ethical. No deep digs unless they dig first."
"Understood, President. Ethical perimeter set." Izzy's gaze skimmed the balcony rails, then returned to neutral innocence. "Side note: three vendors just updated their demos after the committee entered the hall. Reactive behavior suggests fear of live Q&A."
"Good," Henry said. "Fear clarifies. But we won't react. We'll execute."
He finished his wine and set the glass aside. The back hall thrummed like the inside of a turbine. Screens booted. Badges blinked. The air seemed to contract to a point ahead—a stage, a lectern, three seats for the committee, and a valley of expectation in between.
He touched the edge of his cuff, a habitual gesture that wasn't nervousness so much as calibration. Vanderbuilt belonged here. Not because they had squeezed in through the side door, but because their tech moved the needle—fewer casualties, cleaner ops, more truth in the data feed. Governments didn't buy charisma forever. They bought outcomes.
"President," Izzy said gently, "shall I prepare the Vanderbuilt Satellite feed for live demonstrator links?"
"Queue it," Henry said, "but hold it off-stage. We won't flex until the questions demand it."
"Locked and standing by."
They stepped forward with the rest as the ushers opened the rear hall. Rows of executives sat, notebooks ready, eyes bright and predatory. The hush before the event had the feel of weather gathering. Somewhere, a door clicked. The sound echoed like a starting pistol.
Henry breathed once, slow and even.
Game on.
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