The office of the Congo Reform Association in London smelled of stale tea and moral outrage.
E.D. Morel sat behind a desk piled high with letters, pamphlets, and horrifying photographs. He was a disheveled man with ink-stained fingers and the burning eyes of a zealot.
He stared at Jason Underwood with undisguised contempt.
"You have some nerve coming here, Mr. Prentice," Morel spat. "I heard about your trip to Brussels. I heard you dined with the King. Did you enjoy the pâté? I hear it costs an arm and a leg."
Jason stood by the window, watching the London rain streak the glass. He didn't turn around.
"I signed the contract," Jason said.
"Congratulations," Morel clapped sarcastically. "You are now a shareholder in genocide. Why are you here? To offer a donation to soothe your conscience? I don't want your blood money."
Jason turned. He walked to Morel's desk.
He reached into his briefcase.
He pulled out a thick envelope. He tossed it onto the pile of pamphlets.
"I don't have a conscience, Mr. Morel," Jason said flatly. "I have a business plan."
Morel eyed the envelope suspiciously. He opened it.
His eyes widened.
Inside were photographs. Not the grainy ones Morel received from missionaries. These were crisp, clear images taken inside the ABIR company headquarters. Ledgers showing the quota system. Letters signed by Count Lambert authorizing punitive expeditions.
And a copy of the contract Jason had just signed.
"This is..." Morel stammered. "This is internal documentation. This proves the King's direct involvement. How did you get this?"
"I have sticky fingers," Jason said. "And Count Lambert is arrogant. He likes to brag to his new partners."
Morel looked up. "You want me to publish this?"
"I want you to burn them down," Jason said. "Put it on the front page of the Times. The Guardian. The New York World. Scream it from the rooftops. 'American Oil Giant Exposes King's Crimes.'"
"I don't understand," Morel shook his head. "You just bought the exclusive rights. If I publish this, the ABIR stock will crash. The Belgian government will be forced to annex the colony. You'll lose your contract."
"No," Jason smiled. It was the smile of a shark scenting blood. "I'll lose the King."
Jason leaned over the desk.
"Leopold owns the company personally. If the stock crashes, he loses his fortune. He'll be forced to sell his shares to cover his debts."
Jason tapped the desk.
"And when he sells... my shell companies in London will be there to buy them. For pennies on the dollar."
Morel stared at him. He looked horrified and fascinated at the same time.
"You're orchestrating a hostile takeover of a country," Morel whispered.
"I'm removing incompetent management," Jason corrected. "Mutilation is inefficient, Mr. Morel. Dead workers don't pick rubber. Terror breeds rebellion, and rebellion stops production. I need that rubber flowing smoothly."
He straightened his tie.
"Do you want to save the Congolese because it's moral? Fine. I want to save them because it's profitable. We want the same thing."
Morel looked at the photos. He looked at Jason. He realized he was making a deal with a different kind of devil.
"God help us," Morel said.
"God is busy," Jason said. "Run the story."
Three days later, the London Stock Exchange was a slaughterhouse.
The headline of the Times was printed in massive, bold letters:
THE KING'S HORROR: LEAKED DOCUMENTS EXPOSE CONGO SLAVERY.
The public outcry was deafening. There were riots in Brussels. The British Foreign Office threatened a naval blockade.
On the trading floor, brokers were screaming.
"Sell ABIR! Sell it all!"
"It's worthless! The King is finished!"
The stock price plummeted. 100 francs. 50 francs. 10 francs.
In a quiet office above the exchange, Jason Underwood sat with a telephone.
"Buy," he commanded his broker.
"But sir, it's falling—"
"Buy it. Buy every share Leopold dumps. Buy the debt. Buy the land rights. I want 51%. Don't stop until I own the dirt under the trees."
He hung up. He watched the ticker tape.
Leopold was bleeding out. The King was desperate for cash to pay off his creditors. He was selling his private empire for scrap.
And Jason was buying it.
By 4:00 PM, the bell rang.
Jason owned the Congo.
Jason returned to Brussels the next morning.
He didn't go to the palace. He went to the corporate headquarters of the ABIR company.
He walked past the terrified clerks. He kicked open the doors to the director's office.
Count Lambert was packing a bag. He looked like a man who had aged ten years in three days.
"You!" Lambert screamed when he saw Jason. "You traitor! You leaked the files!"
"I protected my investment," Jason said calmly.
He walked around the desk. Lambert stood his ground for a second, then wilted under Jason's gaze. He stepped aside.
Jason sat in the director's chair. He put his feet on the desk.
"You're fired, Count," Jason said.
"You can't fire me! I serve the King!"
"The King is a minority shareholder as of yesterday afternoon," Jason said. "I own 51%. This is my company now."
Lambert turned pale. "You... you american pirate."
"Get out," Jason said. "Before I have you arrested for embezzlement. I'm sure the new auditors will find plenty of missing funds."
Lambert grabbed his bag and fled.
Jason picked up the phone on the desk.
"Get me the regional managers in Boma," Jason ordered. "And get me the chief medical officer."
He waited.
"This is Prentice. I am the new Chairman. New orders effective immediately."
Jason looked at the map of the Congo on the wall. It was marked with red zones for punitive raids.
"The quota system is abolished," Jason said. "The hand-severing stops today. If I hear of one more mutilation, I will hang the station chief responsible."
He paused.
"Shift to a wage system. Pay them in currency, not salt. Build clinics at every collection point. Feed them meat."
There was silence on the other end.
"Sir?" the manager asked, confused. "You want to... pay them?"
"Yes," Jason snapped. "Healthy workers work harder. Sick workers die. It's basic economics. Do it."
He hung up.
He felt a strange sensation in his chest. It wasn't warmth. It wasn't pride.
It was just... balance.
He had bought the rubber with blood. Now he was washing it with money.
The RMS Mauretania steamed west, back toward New York.
Jason stood at the stern rail, watching the wake of the ship churn the dark Atlantic water.
He held a piece of raw rubber in his hand. It was grey, ugly, and smelled of smoke.
Alta walked up to him. The wind whipped her hair, but she looked immaculate as always.
"I saw the cables," Alta said. "The press is calling you a reformer. 'The American Savior of the Congo.'"
She laughed softly.
"If only they knew."
"Let them write what they want," Jason said. "PR keeps the stock price up."
"You saved thousands of lives, Ezra," Alta said. She looked at him with a new kind of curiosity. "Was it really just for efficiency?"
Jason squeezed the rubber.
He thought about the picture of the child's hand. He thought about the dead eyes of Count Lambert.
He couldn't admit he cared. To care was to be weak. To be weak was to die in this century.
"Dead workers don't pick rubber," Jason repeated his mantra. "We need millions of tons for the war. I can't afford a genocide slowing down the supply chain."
"The war," Alta murmured. "You talk about it like it's already scheduled."
"It is," Jason said.
He wound up and threw the piece of rubber into the ocean.
It splashed and disappeared into the frothing waves.
"We have the oil," Jason said, staring at the horizon where America waited. "We have the rubber. We have the steel."
He turned to Alta. His eyes were dark, reflecting the abyss of the coming century.
"Now we just need the spark."
"What spark?" Alta asked.
"The mind," Jason whispered. "The physics. The weapon that ends all wars."
He turned and walked back toward the first-class cabin.
"I need to send a telegram to Switzerland. There's a patent clerk I need to buy."