The fog horn of the RMSMauretania bellowed like a dying leviathan.
BLAAAAAART.
Jason stood on the first-class promenade deck. The mist of the English Channel clung to his wool coat.
"We dock in Liverpool in two hours," Alta said, stepping up beside him. She held a glass of champagne, unfazed by the rolling sea.
"Good," Jason said. "I'm tired of looking at water. I want to look at land I can buy."
"Europe isn't like New York, Ezra," Alta warned. She took a sip, her eyes scanning the grey horizon. "In America, money buys everything. Here... they care about bloodlines. Titles. History."
"History is just a list of people who died," Jason said. "I'm interested in the future."
"And King Leopold?" Alta raised an eyebrow. "He is a monster, Ezra. Even Father won't do business with him directly. The stories coming out of the Congo... they say he runs it like a slaughterhouse."
"He has the rubber, Alta," Jason said. He gripped the teak railing. "Ford needs four tires for every car. The trucks need six. The airplanes need wheels. The demand is going to explode by ten thousand percent in five years."
He turned to her.
"There is only one place on earth with enough wild rubber to feed that beast. The Congo Free State. And Leopold owns every tree personally."
"So we deal with the devil?"
"We buy the devil's pitchfork," Jason corrected. "And then we use it to pave the road."
The Royal Palace of Brussels dripped with gold.
Chandeliers the size of carriages hung from the vaulted ceilings. Servants in powdered wigs moved through the crowd of aristocrats, offering trays of caviar and truffle-laced pâté.
Outside the gilded gates, faint shouts could be heard. Protesters. Socialists screaming about slavery.
Inside, the orchestra played a waltz, loud enough to drown out the conscience of Europe.
Jason adjusted his white tie. He felt the eyes of the Belgian nobility on him. They looked at him with disdain—the American nouveau riche. The oil man.
"Mr. Prentice," a voice purred.
Jason turned.
Count Lambert stood there. He was tall, thin, and wore a sash of medals across his chest. He wore white kidskin gloves that looked too clean. His eyes were dead marbles.
"Count," Jason nodded. "A lovely party. Though the music outside is a bit... discordant."
Lambert smiled thinly. "Anarchists. They are jealous of His Majesty's success. We ignore them."
"I didn't come for the music," Jason said. "I came for the concession."
"Ah, yes. The rubber." Lambert inspected his fingernails through the gloves. "Americans are so direct. No poetry."
"Poetry doesn't vulcanize, Count. I want the exclusive export rights for the Kasai region. Five years."
Lambert laughed softly. "The Congo is His Majesty's private garden, Mr. Prentice. Why should we sell the harvest to you? The Germans are offering a fortune. The British are begging."
"Because the British are investigating you," Jason said. He dropped his voice. "I read the reports from E.D. Morel. The Casement Report. The world knows what you're doing down there. The British Parliament is preparing sanctions."
Lambert's smile didn't waver, but his eyes hardened.
"Slander," Lambert said. "Propaganda from jealous rivals."
"It's about to be international law," Jason pressed. "If the sanctions hit, you can't sell a pound of rubber in London. Your stock crashes. Your King loses his piggy bank."
Jason stepped closer.
"Sell the rights to me now. A private American contract. We aren't signatories to the European treaties. I can move the product through New York. I can keep the cash flowing while London screams."
Lambert studied him. He saw the logic. He saw the ruthlessness.
"You have a strong stomach, Mr. Prentice?"
"I'm an oil man," Jason said. "I deal in sludge."
"Come with me."
Lambert led Jason away from the ballroom, down a long corridor lined with portraits of ancestors who looked inbred and cruel.
They entered a private study. It was dark, smelling of mahogany and cigar smoke.
Lambert walked to a side table. There was a wicker basket sitting there, covered with a linen cloth.
"You talk of efficiency," Lambert said. "You talk of supply chains."
He pulled the cloth away.
Jason looked.
His stomach lurched violently. He tasted bile.
The basket was filled with dried, grey lumps. Raw rubber.
But sitting on top of the rubber was a photograph. Sepia-toned. Grainy.
It showed a Congolese man sitting on a porch, staring at something on the ground in front of him.
He was staring at a small hand and a small foot. Severed.
They belonged to a child.
Jason gripped the edge of the table. The room spun.
"We have a quota system," Lambert said, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather. "The vines are hard to find. The natives are... lazy. They prefer to hunt or farm. We have to motivate them."
Lambert picked up a piece of rubber. He tossed it in his hand.
"If a village meets the quota, they get salt and cloth. If they don't... the Force Publique exacts a penalty. A hand for a basket."
He looked at Jason.
"It is very effective. Production is up forty percent this year."
Jason stared at the photo. He thought of Sarah. He thought of the future. He thought of the war machines he was trying to build.
He was building tanks to save the world from the Kaiser. But the tires of those tanks were made of this.
"This is madness," Jason whispered. "You're depopulating the workforce. Dead workers don't pick rubber."
"There are always more workers," Lambert shrugged.
He pulled a document from his jacket. He slapped it on the table next to the basket.
"The contract," Lambert said. "Exclusive rights to the Kasai basin. Standard Oil ships the product. We handle the... labor."
He held out a gold fountain pen.
"Do you want the rubber, Mr. Prentice? Or do you want to be moral?"
Jason looked at the pen.
He looked at the basket.
If he walked away, the Germans would sign this tomorrow. The Kaiser's army would roll on Congolese rubber. The war would be lost before it started.
Jason Underwood, the man from 2024, wanted to punch Lambert in the throat. He wanted to burn the palace down.
But Ezra Prentice, the architect of the 20th century, knew the math.
He took the pen.
His hand shook. Not from fear. From rage.
He signed his name.
Ezra Prentice.
The ink looked black in the dim light. But Jason knew it was red.
"Wise choice," Lambert smiled. He snatched the contract back. "Welcome to the family."
"I'm not your family," Jason said. His voice was a rasp.
He turned and walked out.
He walked fast. He burst back into the ballroom. The music sounded like screeching brakes. The laughter of the aristocrats sounded like screams.
He found Alta near the champagne fountain.
"Ezra?" she asked, seeing his face. "You look pale. Did you get it?"
Jason looked at his hands. He was wearing white gloves, just like Lambert. He felt like he could never take them off.
"I got it," Jason said.
"And the price?"
Jason looked at the glittering crowd. He saw the gold. He saw the blood beneath the floorboards.
"I just bought a graveyard," Jason whispered.
He grabbed a glass of champagne and downed it in one gulp.
"Let's go to London."
"London? Why? We're done here."
"No," Jason said. The predator was back in his eyes, colder than before. "We bought the rubber. Now I'm going to make sure the King chokes on it."