Chương 25: Chapter 21: Anything Not Nailed Down

The Pentagon greeted me exactly the way it was supposed to greet a man who had come asking the military for money: with cool politeness and poorly concealed skepticism. The conference room was located deep inside the five-sided concrete monster, on the fourth floor of the E Ring, far enough in to emphasize the seriousness of the meeting, but not far enough to let a random visitor anywhere near the truly important offices.

The walls were paneled in dark wood and decorated with portraits of former secretaries of defense. The long mahogany table could seat about twenty people, and nearly every chair was occupied. I quickly assessed the room, silently thanking Angleton for the detailed briefing the day before. At the head of the table sat Brigadier General William DePuy, Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations and Plans.

Sixty-two years old, a Vietnam veteran and one of the advocates of the new military doctrine the Army had been trying to develop after the humiliation in Southeast Asia. To his right sat Rear Admiral James Watkins from the Office of Naval Operations, fifty-one years old and a rapidly rising star in the Navy. To his left was Lieutenant General John Guthrie from Army logistics and readiness, one of the men who effectively decided what American soldiers would wear, eat, and shoot.

Further down the table were colonels and lieutenant colonels from various departments: procurement, research and development, infantry training, medical services. Several civilians in expensive suits represented the Office of the Secretary of Defense and, if I had correctly understood Angleton's hints, there were also a couple of quiet observers from the intelligence community. In the corner, slightly removed from the main table, sat a man I didn't notice immediately.

A lieutenant colonel somewhere around forty: broad shoulders, square jaw, closely cropped hair already graying at the temples. But the most memorable feature was his mustache, thick, carefully trimmed, with a distinctive curve. The moment I noticed it, a vague association surfaced in my mind. One glance at the nameplate confirmed it. Lt. Col. Thaddeus Ross. I made a mental note to come back to that name later. When I had started gathering all these people in one room, I hadn't really known what to expect.

Angleton and Bagley had promised to open some doors for me, but I hadn't imagined they would swing them quite this wide. A brigadier general, a rear admiral, senior Army officers—for a presentation by a company that until recently had been known for office supplies, this was an impressive audience. Still, I was beginning to understand why. It wasn't only about the old men's connections, though Angleton had accumulated enough favors over thirty years at the Agency to open almost any door in Washington.

The real reason was that for the last six months my name had barely left television screens or newspaper pages. The genius who did it all himself. The press had found the story far too attractive not to exploit it. America was tired of bad news: Watergate, Vietnam, the oil crisis, Son of Sam. People desperately wanted something to believe in, and a young entrepreneur who had risen from nothing and was now creating jobs in dying Rust Belt towns fit perfectly into the role of a symbol of hope.

I hadn't planned that media campaign. At least, not on that scale. It was simply that in a world overflowing with bad news, good news tended to sell itself. And right now that reputation was helping me enormously. Apparently, it had given these people some hope that the genius everyone kept calling me might actually have something worth showing them. And, to be fair, they were right. I stood, buttoned my jacket, and looked around the room.

"Gentlemen, thank you for finding the time in your schedules to meet with me. I came here today to demonstrate a series of developments that, I believe, will change a great deal both for our armed forces and for the security of this country." I paused long enough for the words to settle.

"Allow me to present the Aegis Warrior System. An integrated individual protection and equipment system for the modern soldier, designed from the ground up around the latest materials and technologies." At my signal, the doors at the far end of the room opened, and four of my people rolled in display stands carrying mannequins. Each was dressed in a complete set of equipment: helmet, body armor with ceramic plates, tactical load-bearing gear, gloves, knee pads, elbow pads, boots. The equipment looked impressive.

Smooth lines, carefully considered ergonomics, nothing like the bulky and awkward gear the Army currently issued.

"What you see in front of you," I said, walking to the first mannequin and resting a hand on the helmet, "is not simply a collection of protective equipment. It is a single system in which every component has been designed to work with the others." I removed the helmet from the stand and handed it to General DePuy, who sat closest.

"The Aegis Tactical Helmet. Kevlar construction. Two hundred grams lighter than the standard M1 steel helmet, while providing substantially better ballistic protection. It reliably stops fragments, ricochets, and direct hits from handgun calibers." DePuy turned the helmet over in his hands, tapped the shell with his knuckles, and inspected the interior. His expression remained unreadable, but I noticed one eyebrow rise slightly when he judged the weight.

"Take note of the mounting system across the shell," I continued.

"Standardized attachment points for additional equipment: night-vision devices, protective eyewear, communications headsets." I let the helmet travel further down the table and moved on to the next mannequin.

"The Aegis Tactical Vest. Modular body armor using removable ceramic plates." I released the fasteners and pulled one of the plates free.

"Boron carbide on a polymer backing with Kevlar reinforcement. This plate can stop a 7. 62-millimeter rifle round." A low murmur ran through the room. Major General Larson, who until then had watched with the expression of a professional skeptic, suddenly leaned forward.

"A rifle round?" he repeated.

"At what weight?"

"Two and a half kilograms per plate, sir. A full set of two, front and back, adds five kilograms to the vest. That is heavier than a pure Kevlar vest, but it provides an entirely different level of protection."

"How well does it survive repeated hits?" asked a colonel from Research and Development.

"How many rounds can it take?"

"Our tests showed resistance to multiple impacts. The ceramic fractures locally around the point of impact, but the polymer backing maintains the integrity of the plate and helps distribute the energy from subsequent hits. Naturally, after a serious firefight, the plates should be replaced. But the soldier wearing them will still be alive." I gave them several minutes to pass the plate around, feel it, judge the weight and texture.

While they studied the material, I continued through the rest of the system: modular load-bearing equipment with configurable pouches, combat gloves with reinforced knuckles, joint protection, polycarbonate ballistic goggles. One of my assistants changed slides on the projector, and charts showing production capacity appeared on the white screen behind me. I talked about supply chains, four factories in Ohio and Pennsylvania, stockpiled materials and a trained workforce.

I showed them numbers: how many complete sets we could produce now, how many in six months, how many in a year. If the Army became seriously interested, we were ready to scale quickly. The presentation was thorough. I answered dozens of questions about material certification, testing, compatibility with current Army equipment. But I understood that words and motionless mannequins could only convey so much. These people needed to see the system work.

"Gentlemen, with your permission, I would like to demonstrate the equipment in practical use. If you would follow me into the adjoining room, which Pentagon security has kindly provided for live-fire testing." They exchanged glances but began rising from their chairs. General DePuy headed for the side door first, and the others followed. The adjoining room had been specially prepared for today's demonstration. A bullet trap made of compressed rubber and steel plates covered the far wall.

In front of it stood mannequins in full equipment. The observation area occupied the opposite end of the room, separated from the firing position by yellow markings on the floor. The distance and angle had been calculated to eliminate any danger to the audience. Pentagon security personnel stood around the perimeter, standard procedure for any live-fire demonstration. Solid-looking men, well trained, with the attentive eyes of professionals. At my signal, eight members of Aegis Security entered the room.

And I have to say, the Pentagon soldiers simply disappeared beside them. My people wore full combat gear: helmets with protective goggles lowered, body armor, load-bearing equipment with pouches, gloves, knee pads, boots. They moved as one unit, without unnecessary words or gestures, each man knowing exactly where he belonged. When they formed a line, I noticed several Army officers exchange looks. The difference between ordinary soldiers and my team was obvious. The contrast wasn't only with the Pentagon guards.

Beside the motionless mannequins, living men wearing the same equipment looked completely different. Everything fit properly, moved with the body, didn't bunch up, shift around, or interfere with movement. When I asked them to demonstrate basic motions—squats, rolls, weapon handling—it became obvious how much thought had gone into the ergonomics of every component.

"Notice the freedom of movement," I explained while my people worked through several tactical transitions.

"The joint protection does not restrict mobility. The vest does not interfere with raising the arms or bending over. The helmet does not significantly reduce peripheral vision." General DePuy stepped closer and examined the equipment on one of the men.

"The pouch attachment system." He pointed to the load-bearing rig.

"Standardized?"

"Yes, sir. Any pouch can be attached anywhere along the grid. A soldier can reconfigure his equipment for a particular mission or personal preference in a matter of minutes."

"How much does the complete system weigh?"

"Approximately eleven kilograms, including the ceramic plates." DePuy grunted. Lieutenant Colonel Ross, who had remained silent in the corner until now, suddenly stood and walked over to one of the mannequins. Without asking permission, he pulled off its vest, turned it over in his hands, checked the fasteners and examined the plate pockets. His movements were sharp, almost aggressive. He was clearly looking for something wrong with it.

"Ceramic is brittle," he said at last.

"One good hit and the plate shatters. Then what?"

"The plate can be replaced in thirty seconds, sir," I replied calmly.

"In combat, that isn't always possible, I agree. But a soldier with a damaged plate is still alive and able to keep fighting. A soldier who takes a rifle round to the chest without one is not." Ross narrowed his eyes but had nothing to add.

"And now, gentlemen," I said, allowing myself a slight smile, "with your permission, the main demonstration. Please step behind the safety line." Everyone moved into the observation area. Two of my people checked the armor on the mannequins and fitted helmets onto them. A third picked up a weapon from the table and loaded a magazine.

"We'll begin with the helmet," I announced.

"Nine-millimeter Parabellum. Direct impact." The shot cracked through the room. The mannequin's head snapped backward, but the helmet stayed in place. One of my men walked over, removed it, and held it up for everyone to see. A deep dent marked the forehead section. Cracks spread outward from the impact point, but there was no penetration. The bullet remained buried in the Kevlar.

"For comparison," I said, indicating a second mannequin wearing a standard M1 helmet. Another shot. The steel helmet flew off the mannequin and hit the floor with a metallic clang. My man picked it up and displayed it to the room: a ragged hole through both sides, entry at the front, exit at the back. A murmur ran through the observation area.

"Now the vest," I continued.

"Standard handgun caliber." Three shots in quick succession. The mannequin rocked with the impacts but stayed upright. My man approached, removed the vest, and held it up. Three clear impact marks showed on the outside. No penetration.

". 45 caliber." Three more shots. Same result.

"And finally…" He raised the M16, and the room became very quiet. A short five-round burst shattered the silence. When the smoke cleared, my man approached the mannequin again. He removed the vest and carried it toward the observation area. Five hits clustered across the chest. The ceramic plate was covered in spiderweb cracks, with deep craters marking each impact. Not one round had gone through.

"The plate obviously needs to be replaced," I said, taking the vest and showing them the back.

"But look here. Back-face deformation is minimal. The effect on the wearer remains within acceptable limits. Bruising, perhaps a cracked rib, but the soldier survives and remains capable of fighting." General DePuy took the plate from my hands. He studied the web of cracks for a long moment, ran one finger around the edge of a crater.

"Impressive," he said at last. It was the first word of approval anyone had spoken during the entire presentation.

"But that's not all, sir." I nodded to two of my men. They exchanged a glance, and the first walked toward the target stand, taking the mannequin's place. The second stepped back ten meters, raised a pistol, and settled into a firing stance. Pentagon security reacted immediately. Hands went for holsters, several men stepped forward, and one officer shouted for them to stop.

"Gentlemen." I raised one hand, calling for silence.

"What you are about to see may appear reckless. But I want you to understand something: we trust this equipment enough to put the lives of our own people in its hands." I turned to DePuy.

"Sir, with your permission, we would like to provide a somewhat more convincing demonstration." The general stared at me for a long time. The room was so quiet I could hear someone's wristwatch ticking. I could almost see his mind working through the risks, calculating the consequences, wondering what he would have to explain to his superiors if anything went wrong. Then he gave a short nod and motioned for the security personnel to stand down.

My man at the target position planted his feet wide, crossed his arms behind his back, and raised his chin. He stared straight ahead with absolute calm. Not surprising. Showing off in front of this many senior officers was always enjoyable, and by now this kind of shooting had become almost routine for us. It was one of the mandatory stages of psychological training, and every one of my people had gone through it more than once. The room waited.

"Nine millimeter."

"Wait!" someone called out.

"Maybe we really shouldn't—" My man had already pulled the trigger. Ten rounds in rapid succession. The gunfire hammered against our ears in the enclosed room. The man at the target position absorbed the hits, swaying slightly with each impact, but his expression did not change. No grimace. No flinch. Nothing. When the slide locked back, the room fell completely silent. The man slowly opened the vest and pulled it off. Underneath was nothing but a black T-shirt. No blood. No holes.

He lifted the shirt to show his torso. Not even bruising yet. Clean skin, with only slight reddening where the rounds had struck. An astonished murmur swept through the room.

"Your turn, Eddie," the man said, a faint grin in his voice. They switched places.

". 45," the second man announced. Seven shots. Seven hits to the chest. Again, almost no visible reaction. When he removed the vest and showed that underneath it was only a T-shirt and healthy skin, the room erupted. Voices rose all around me. Exclamations of disbelief. Only now did everyone truly understand the level of protection they had just seen.

Lieutenant General Guthrie practically rushed over to my men, grabbing their arms and feeling their chests through the shirts as though he couldn't believe his own eyes. Several colonels surrounded the removed vests, staring at the bullet marks with the expressions of children who had just been shown real magic. Technically, they had seen the same thing on the mannequins. But mannequins hadn't produced this reaction. Military men. What could you do? You had to give them a little more realism and fear.

A good advertising trick, whichever way you looked at it.

"Jesus Christ," someone muttered.

"Are they out of their minds?" General DePuy hadn't moved. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, clearly thinking. Even Ross, who had radiated skepticism from the beginning, was now stroking his mustache with visible approval.

"Mr. Miller." DePuy's voice cut through the noise, and the room immediately quieted.

"I'm very glad I decided to trust the recommendations of my acquaintances. I'll admit, when I was told that a manufacturer of office supplies wanted to show us new military equipment, I was skeptical." He took several steps toward me.

"But what I saw today…" He shook his head.

"You know, Mr. Miller, I never expected to see something that actually addressed nearly every requirement we've been discussing. We've been trying for years to introduce something genuinely new into the Army. Plenty of famous names promised to satisfy those requests, usually by proposing elaborate systems for destroying the enemy that cost millions of dollars. Then, when it came time to field them across the force, we discovered it was impossible. Too expensive, too complicated, too slow."

He stopped in front of me.

"But perhaps geniuses really do think differently. You didn't invent a new way to kill people. You found a way to keep them alive. And I would say that is considerably more valuable." He offered his hand.

"Welcome to the defense industry, Mr. Miller." I shook it, hearing a wave of approving murmurs spread through the room.

"I'll be glad if my products can save soldiers' lives, sir." DePuy straightened his uniform and looked around at the others.

"Gentlemen, I believe we've seen enough. I suggest we return to the conference room and discuss the terms of an experimental procurement."

The next two hours were spent in negotiations that I would remember as some of the most intense of my life. Fortunately, I had my specialists with me, and together we managed to put together something genuinely acceptable. The military wanted everything at once: full access to the technology, exclusive rights, control over production. I pushed back wherever I could, giving ground on minor points and holding the line on the ones that mattered.

In the end, we agreed on a pilot purchase: one thousand complete sets for field testing under a variety of conditions, from the Nevada desert to the jungles of Panama. An eighteen-month contract with an option to expand if the trials proved successful. We committed to maintaining uninterrupted equipment deliveries if procurement increased. The Department also received the right to veto sales of the technology to undesirable buyers, but we managed to limit that restriction to five years.

The amount wasn't astronomical for a first contract, around three million dollars. Still, it was good money. They agreed to purchase the complete equipment package for three thousand dollars per set, which, against our production cost of roughly twelve hundred, left a respectable margin. But something else mattered more to me. A lot of curious people would finally stop poking around quite so aggressively. They might keep watching, but now they would do it from a distance and with a little more respect.

When most of the group had left and only a handful of people remained in the room, Ross approached me.

"You know, Miller, you managed to surprise me," he began, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Contractors come and go. They promise miracles, show us pretty presentations and impressive prototypes. Then their wonder weapon falls apart during the first real field test, and my men pay for someone else's incompetence with their lives." I almost snorted but stopped myself. Only a lieutenant colonel so far, but there was plenty of ego already. He spoke as though he had personally approved the procurement. Still, listening to him now made one thing clear. The comics and movies hadn't exaggerated much.

The man definitely had some serious issues rattling around in his head.

"You put your own people in front of live ammunition. That's what I don't see from the others. I'd like to watch some of them stand under fire while setting up one of their systems, right before the damned thing starts crackling and dies."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel. I follow a fairly simple principle: if you aren't willing to stand in front of bullets wearing your own armor, you have no right to sell it to someone else." Ross grinned.

"I like your approach, Miller. Too many talkers in our world and too few people willing to back their words with action. Politicians give speeches about national security and forget that national security costs money. Generals in the Pentagon can barely tell a bolt carrier from a magazine. And contractors stuff their pockets while supplying the Army with garbage that breaks at the worst possible moment." I saw the muscles in his shoulders tense beneath his uniform.

"America is sick, Miller. After Vietnam, we became a joke. The whole world looks at us and sees not a great power, but a confused giant that doesn't know where it's going. Our enemies are sharpening their knives, our allies are having doubts, and our own citizens spit on the flag. Do you understand what I'm talking about?"

"I do, sir. The country needs change."

"Not just change." His hands moved sharply.

"Strength. The world needs to be reminded that America can still defend its interests and punish anyone who threatens us. But for that, the Army needs more than pretty speeches. It needs real superiority." He lowered his voice, though almost no one remained in the room.

"I'm gathering people around me who think the same way. Officers, industrialists, scientists. People who understand that protecting the country sometimes requires action outside official protocols. We meet once a month, discuss the situation, make plans. Nothing illegal. Just people who want to make America strong again." He held out his hand, and his grip was almost painfully firm.

"I need people like you, Miller. People with ideas, resources, and, most importantly, the willingness to do what has to be done. What do you say?" Inside, I was laughing. Right. No need for pretty speeches, huh? And yet he had just wrapped a fairly simple idea in enough patriotic rhetoric to fill a campaign rally. Right now he was gathering promising people around himself, people who could help him climb the career ladder.

What would happen to those people later was a much bigger question, especially knowing the control-obsessed bastard he would become in the comics. My guess was that once his allies stopped being useful, he would simply start getting rid of them. But he had made one very serious mistake. I had actually been planning to approach him myself and offer almost the same thing. A man like Ross needed to be kept close and watched carefully. More than that, I needed to get a hook into him. A very strong one.

Give him support. Find leverage. Make him dependent. I just had to be careful not to get too clever and end up trapped in my own game. But I didn't see another option. There was too much I needed to intercept before it ever reached his hands, while he was still a lieutenant colonel and not yet the monster he would become. Yes, my intelligence people were going to have to work themselves half to death. But that was what I paid them for.

"It would be an honor, Lieutenant Colonel," I said, matching the pressure of his handshake.

"I'm always willing to serve the interests of the country." Ross smiled. There wasn't a trace of warmth in it. Only the cold satisfaction of a man who believed he had just added another useful ally to his collection. Well. We would see which one of us had actually caught the other.

Howard Stark's workshop occupied an entire wing of his Long Island estate and looked more like an aircraft assembly hangar than a home laboratory. High ceilings with industrial lights, a concrete floor stained with oil, racks of tools and spare parts along the walls, and in the middle of it all, a half-disassembled engine from something that might have been either an experimental car or a small airplane. Howard himself was lying underneath the machine, with only his legs sticking out.

He was still wearing expensive Italian shoes for some reason, though the rest of his suit was protected by a worn work coverall. The sound of metal tapping against metal came from beneath the vehicle, interrupted now and then by quiet grumbling. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Edwin Jarvis, as immaculate as ever in his dark suit and perfectly tied necktie, stopped a few steps away from the pair of shoes and cleared his throat delicately.

"Sir?"

"Busy," came the reply from under the machine.

"Of course, sir. However, I have some information that I believe may interest you." The metallic clinking continued.

"If this is about the board meeting, tell them I'm dead. Or that I went to Antarctica. Or both."

"It is not about the board meeting, sir. It concerns the Pentagon and a new contractor for the individual protection program." The clinking stopped. A second of silence, then Howard rolled out from under the machine on a small mechanic's creeper, holding a wrench in one hand and something vaguely resembling a carburetor in the other. He was fifty-seven, but looked remarkably young for his age. There was a reason women still flocked around him at every social event.

Gray had silvered his temples, and wrinkles had settled around his eyes and mouth, but the eyes themselves still burned with enthusiasm. His trademark mustache was neatly trimmed, though there was a streak of engine oil across one cheek.

"A new contractor?" He set the carburetor aside and sat up, resting his back against a wheel.

"Since when does the Pentagon go looking for new contractors without asking me first?"

"Since you declined the contract to modernize Army equipment last year, sir. You said, and I quote, 'Let them deal with their rags themselves. I have more important things to do.'""I did not say that."

"You said exactly that, sir. I wrote it down." Howard grunted and started wiping his hands on a rag, mostly succeeding in spreading the oil around.

"All right, maybe I did. So what, they found someone willing to waste time on helmets and boots?"

"Not exactly helmets and boots, sir." Jarvis handed him a thin folder.

"It is an integrated next-generation protection system. Kevlar helmets, modular body armor with ceramic plates, integrated load-bearing equipment. According to the reports available to us, the demonstration at the Pentagon made quite an impression."

"Ceramic plates?" Howard took the folder but didn't open it yet, still wiping his hands.

"They actually managed to make that technology practical?"

"Apparently so, sir. According to the report, two company employees allowed themselves to be shot with live ammunition during the demonstration. Neither was injured." Howard whistled.

"Pure theater, obviously, but soldiers love that sort of thing. Can't blame them." He finally opened the folder and skimmed the first page.

"Aegis Industries? Those are the people who make those... what are they... smoke detectors?"

"And automobile alarms, sir. And office supplies. And video game consoles."

"Video game consoles?"

"AES, sir. Aegis Entertainment System. Quite a popular device, as I understand it. Tony asked for one for Christmas."

"And you bought it for him?"

"Of course, sir. It was a very well-considered gift from an educational standpoint. The console was disassembled within the first hour." Howard turned the page, and his eyebrows climbed.

"Processor manufacturing, disk drives, their own media format... These people are good. They control the whole chain."

"Precisely, sir."

"Hm." He closed the folder and tapped it thoughtfully against his knee.

"Not bad. Really not bad. None of the technology is revolutionary, but it's solid, and the execution is excellent. Who's behind them? Lockheed? General Dynamics?"

"No one, sir. The company is wholly owned by its founder."

"Who?" Jarvis took out another sheet and handed it over. Howard stared at the photograph of a young man in a business suit looking into the camera with quiet confidence.

"David Miller, thirty-one years old," Jarvis continued.

"Former insurance clerk from New Jersey. Founded the company three years ago, practically from nothing. In that time, he has built a conglomerate with annual revenue estimated at roughly ninety million dollars." Howard looked at the photograph for a long moment, then turned the page over and read the short biography on the back.

"Insurance clerk," he repeated in a tone that was hard to read.

"Three years ago he was sitting in some office sorting paperwork... and now all this?"

"Yes, sir." Howard grunted and set the page down.

"Talented kid. Or very lucky. Probably both." He picked up the Pentagon report again and read through it more carefully.

"You know, Jarvis, I'm not going to compete with them. Body armor and helmets aren't my field. Too boring. Let them have it."

"Of course, sir."

"But..." Howard raised a finger.

"They have some interesting technology. These ceramic composites, the mounting system, that game console of theirs. I'd like to know what else they have hidden away." He shook his head.

"Buy their stock."

"Excuse me, sir?"

"The stock, Jarvis. Whatever percentage is available on the open market, buy it. Five percent, ten, whatever you can get. I want a seat at the table when they finally crawl out of the sandbox." Jarvis hesitated for a fraction of a second, and Howard noticed immediately.

"What?"

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, sir. Aegis Industries has no publicly traded shares." Howard frowned.

"What do you mean, none? A company doing ninety million in revenue, and not a single share on the market?"

"That is correct, sir. The company is entirely private. One hundred percent of the shares are personally owned by Mr. Miller. No outside investors, no public offerings, no minority equity stakes. A few trusted individuals hold nonvoting interests in subsidiary companies, but those provide no influence over management." Howard slowly set the folder aside. Then he got up from the floor, brushed off his coveralls, and walked to a workbench where a decanter of whiskey stood.

He poured himself two fingers, took a sip, and turned back to Jarvis.

"Wait. You're telling me this kid..." He pointed toward the photograph.

"... built all of that without a single investor?"

"Exactly, sir. According to the information available, Mr. Miller began with a small amount of starting capital, apparently gambling winnings, and reinvested all profits back into the business. No venture funds, no bank loans secured against equity, no strategic partners holding ownership stakes." Howard took another sip and looked thoughtfully through the window. Beyond the glass stretched the carefully maintained lawns of the estate, and beyond them a strip of ocean.

"You know, Jarvis," he said at last, "in forty years of business I've seen just about everything. Geniuses who went bankrupt in a year. Idiots who became billionaires. Lucky bastards who had everything fall into their laps. Workaholics who put in twenty-hour days and still never got anywhere." He turned and looked at the photograph again.

"But a man who built a conglomerate from nothing in three years, without investors, without connections, and already has military contracts... I've never seen that before."

"I would say Mr. Miller is a rather unusual individual, sir."

"Unusual." Howard smirked.

"That's putting it mildly." He finished the whiskey and set the glass on the workbench.

"Arrange a meeting."

"Sir?"

"A meeting, Jarvis. With Miller. Informal, no fanfare. Dinner, maybe. Or just a conversation over a glass of something decent."

"May I ask the purpose of the meeting, sir? For preparation." Howard looked at the photograph again, and an expression appeared in his eyes that Jarvis knew very well and, if he was being honest, did not especially like. Curiosity, excitement, and that particular hunger Howard Stark developed whenever he encountered something genuinely interesting. When he couldn't understand something or figure out what lay behind it, he could disappear into research and experiments for a week, forgetting sleep and food entirely.

"The purpose?" Howard smiled.

"I want to look him in the eye and figure out what kind of animal he is. And why I have the feeling I'm looking at someone a little like myself. Younger and... obviously stupider." He paused.

"And I'd like to know whether there's something more behind that rapid rise."

"I must say, that is a rather flattering assessment coming from you, sir. So, a meeting to explore possible cooperation and evaluate him personally."

"Exactly. And you're wrong about the flattery. I'm just stating a fact. I think the kid probably has a decent brain." Howard lay back down on the creeper and rolled beneath the machine. A second later, the metallic clinking resumed.

"And Jarvis?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Find out everything you can about this Miller. Everything. Where he came from, how he started, who he works with, what he does for fun, what coffee he drinks in the morning. I want to know more about him than he knows about himself before we meet."

"It will be done, sir." Jarvis gathered the papers and headed toward the door. Just before leaving, he turned back.

"Sir, one more thing."

"Mm?"

"According to several sources, Mr. Miller is also rather successful in what one might call a parallel line of activity. His security company has been connected to several incidents involving organized crime. Nothing proven, of course, but the rumors are persistent." The clinking stopped. Howard rolled out from under the machine again and frowned.

"What kind of incidents?"

"Repeated armed confrontations, sir. It appears his people are conducting something resembling a private war against several criminal organizations in New York."

"Hm." Howard rubbed his chin thoughtfully, leaving another streak of oil behind.

"So he has teeth too. Good. I don't like dealing with spineless people." Jarvis allowed himself the faintest smile.

"I'll arrange the meeting as soon as possible, sir."

"Do that, Jarvis. And..." A pause.

"... tell Tony I'll find time next week to play that AES of his with him. If we're going to deal with the man who created it, I should probably understand what exactly he created."

"Master Tony will be delighted, sir."

"I'm sure he will." Jarvis stepped out, quietly closing the door behind him. The sound of tools soon resumed from inside the workshop, but now it was accompanied by soft whistling. Howard Stark was in a good mood.

By the end of 1978, Aegis Industries resembled some many-armed colossus reaching in a dozen directions at once and grabbing more with every hand. James Corrigan and my international division had exceeded every expectation I had. In a year and a half, they built a distribution network spanning twenty-six countries. Our products were being sold across Western Europe, Australia, Brazil, and Mexico. But Japan was the real triumph. Breaking into that market had seemed almost impossible.

The Japanese were notorious for their reluctance to buy foreign products, especially in office supplies, where domestic giants like Kokuyo and Plus Corporation dominated. Corrigan spent eight months negotiating, learned basic Japanese, and endured countless business dinners where more sake was consumed than contracts discussed. Eventually, he found a way in through Mitsubishi Corporation, which was looking for high-quality Western goods for its retail network.

Our sticky notes, with their bright colors and reliable adhesive, fit perfectly into the Japanese culture of workplace organization. We were now shipping roughly two hundred thousand units there each year, and that number was growing every quarter. One of the more interesting achievements was a deal I had never even considered: through a chain of intermediaries and trading companies, our office products began making their way into the Soviet Union.

"They'll take everything we can supply," Corrigan reported at one of our meetings, undisguised satisfaction in his voice.

"Sticky notes, page flags, correction tape. Especially the correction tape. They've got typewriters in every government office over there, but apparently decent correction fluid is hard to come by."

"How the hell did you even manage that?" I asked, genuinely impressed.

"Through the Finns." He shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"They've had trade ties with the Soviets for years. Finlandization in action. We sell to the Finnish company Isku, they resell to Soviet foreign-trade organizations, everybody's happy. The margins aren't great, but volume makes up for it. The Soviets need decent office supplies for ministries and major enterprises, while their own industry is geared toward other priorities." The office-supply division, which had once been our beginning, was now bringing in around thirty million dollars in annual revenue.

It wasn't the biggest piece of our pie, but it was the most reliable. People would always write. They would always make mistakes that needed correcting. They would always need to mark important places in documents. It was a cash flow I could count on under almost any circumstances. The security-products division was growing even faster, helped along by legislative changes. California, New York, Massachusetts, Illinois—one state after another was passing laws requiring smoke detectors in residential buildings.

The federal government was preparing a national standard expected to take effect in the early eighties. Aegis Sentinel detectors now hung in millions of homes across the country. Our car alarms with backup batteries had become the standard against which competitors were judged. Personal panic alarms were selling in numbers I once wouldn't have dared dream about. Fifty million dollars in annual revenue, and that was just America. Expansion into Europe promised to double that figure within the next two years.

But the real engine of growth was gaming. AES continued to dominate the home-console market. The Atari 2600 was nipping at our heels, but the gap in quality was too large for them to close without completely rethinking their product. And consoles were only part of the picture. The real money started coming in once people realized the value of what we controlled.

MOS Technology manufactured 6502 processors, which were now used not only in our consoles but in Stark II computers, Commodore PETs, and dozens of other devices. Every computer sold meant royalties flowing into our pocket. Shugart Associates supplied disk drives to half the computer industry. Our proprietary disk format in protective housings had begun spreading beyond gaming as computer manufacturers started looking at it as a more reliable alternative to traditional five-inch floppies.

Licensing fees, patent royalties, contract manufacturing—it all added up to a number that made even Chen raise an eyebrow. Seventy million dollars in annual revenue from the gaming division, and a significant share of that didn't come from selling our own products at all, but from other companies using our technology. And that wasn't even counting the specialists we kept hiring and poaching from competitors.

Engineers, designers, programmers, marketers—dozens of talented people joined us every month, and they kept developing products and entire divisions without my direct involvement. Even if I stopped bringing in new ideas tomorrow, these people would manage on their own. The company had developed its own momentum. Its own life. Our alarm systems were already being prepared for the next generation.

We were developing a full home-security package: motion sensors, door and window contacts, a central control panel, and a telephone connection to security services. Within a few years, every well-off homeowner in America would want something like it. New ideas and products kept appearing in office supplies as well. Mechanical pencils with automatic lead advancement, licensed from a Japanese company and now produced in the United States. Flat-clinch staplers that didn't leave protruding staples on stacks of paper.

Desk organizers made from recycled plastic, riding the growing wave of environmental awareness. None of those products brought in much money on its own, but together they created an ecosystem and kept our name firmly established in office supplies. Our SafeGlow reflectors had gained legislative support in twelve states, where reflective elements on children's clothing and schoolbags had become mandatory. We continued making enormous sums licensing the technology to other manufacturers of clothing and accessories.

Every jacket with our reflective material meant a few cents in our pocket. And millions of those jackets were being sold. The footwear division wasn't profitable yet, but Wesley, whom I had put in charge of it, brought it to break-even faster than anyone expected. The factories were running, people were being paid, and the products were reaching stores.

"We'll be in the black by next spring," he reported.

"Hiking season starts, and those Hyer boots are going to sell like hotcakes. I've already worked out prominent placement with REI and Eastern Mountain Sports. But even now, we can say we've got something genuinely disruptive here, same as always with your ideas, boss. The membrane, the sole, the air cushioning—they make this product a serious problem for our competitors. People who try our boots don't want to wear anything else afterward."

The Pentagon contract for the Aegis Warrior System was growing like a snowball, forcing us to open new plants and expand the workforce. The equipment trials went well. Extremely well. The original order for one thousand sets turned into fifty thousand units. We were now talking about a forty-five-million-dollar contract for the first stage alone. A Marine Corps supply contract was already appearing on the horizon, then the Army Reserve, then the National Guard.

Police departments were looking at our vests for tactical units. Even private security firms and civilian enthusiasts were lining up. And that was only the military side. Salazar had filed patents for civilian versions of our protective equipment: bicycle helmets using the same impact-absorption technology as our combat helmets, knee and elbow protection for skateboarders and roller skaters, protective gear for motorcyclists. Motorcycle helmets became a project of their own.

I sketched out a modern full-face helmet with improved aerodynamics, ventilation, and a removable visor—the sort of thing that, in my old world, wouldn't really appear until the mid-eighties. With our manufacturing capabilities, the engineers had little trouble recreating the design using the same Kevlar composites developed for military helmets. They weren't on sale yet. For now, we were working through licensing and figuring out the best distribution model.

Negotiations were already underway with Harley-Davidson and several European manufacturers about partnerships. We had also started developing protective equipment for construction and industrial workers. Hard hats with improved impact absorption, safety glasses made from the same polycarbonate as our ballistic eyewear, gloves with reinforced palms. OSHA was tightening workplace-safety standards, and we intended to be ready when the new rules came into force.

The same factories could produce all of it using the same materials and the same workforce.

"Within five years, every second cyclist in America will be wearing one of our helmets," Salazar predicted.

"Mandatory helmet laws are already being discussed in several states, and we can help move them along. We have connections, injury statistics, doctors willing to testify before legislatures. We'll end up in the same position we were with smoke detectors: mandatory product, market largely controlled by us." The security side of the company was flourishing too. Aegis Security had grown into a full-scale operation with hundreds of employees and contracts across the East Coast. Eight million dollars in annual revenue.

For the private-security industry, that was serious money and proof of an excellent reputation. We guarded banks, jewelry stores, and the offices of major corporations. Our people escorted armored cars and provided security at high-society events. Several celebrities hired our bodyguards once word spread about the quality of our training. We even landed contracts to protect several embassies in Washington. But more important than the money were the connections, information, and reputation the division gave us.

Our people were everywhere. They saw everything. They heard everything. And all of it eventually came back to me. The war with organized crime continued, but its nature had changed. After several very public beatdowns and carefully placed leaks to rival organizations, most of the serious players decided that dealing with Aegis simply wasn't worth the trouble. Smaller gangs still tried something from time to time, but those were more like mosquito bites than genuine threats.

The heavyweights had turned toward fighting among themselves, encouraged by the information we generously kept feeding them. Wilson Fisk continued to grow, but far more slowly than he might have otherwise. Every time he tried to expand into new territory, something went wrong: police raids triggered by anonymous tips, sudden trouble with suppliers, compromising information finding its way into the hands of competitors. He was smart.

He had probably already realized that someone was working against him systematically. He just hadn't figured out who.

Money was pouring in, but I had no intention of letting it sit idle in bank accounts. Every spare dollar went straight back into the business: expanding production, research and development, acquiring assets, hiring the best specialists I could find. Land was one of my main priorities. I bought property all across the Rust Belt, where prices had fallen to historic lows. Abandoned industrial zones in Youngstown, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Detroit.

Empty warehouses, shuttered factories, entire blocks that local authorities were willing to give away for almost nothing if someone would just take over the taxes and maintenance. And not only the Rust Belt. I was watching property in New York too, especially neighborhoods that were considered run-down now but that I knew would eventually become prime targets for redevelopment.

In California, I bought vacant ranches and farmland in places where, ten or twenty years from now, technology campuses and middle-class housing developments would spread across the landscape.

"Why do you need this much land?" Grant asked when another deal for an industrial complex in Akron landed on my desk. Even though she had always supported buying property for the future, she didn't understand the scale of my appetite. Aegis Properties was growing at an absurd pace, and so were the expenses.

"We won't be able to use even a tenth of what we've already bought. And this isn't just the purchase price. There are taxes, maintenance, security."

"Not yet," I replied.

"But we both understand there's nothing more important than the ground we're standing on. I think a lot of people are going to realize that soon enough."

"You know I completely agree with you on the principle." She frowned as she flipped through the latest acquisition reports.

"But why so much? We're buying empty land in California, for God's sake. Barren property in the middle of nowhere." I was laughing inside. She had just called Silicon Valley barren land. In fifteen years, those "empty lots" would be worth more than entire sections of Manhattan.

"Mrs. Grant, some people like buying gold and diamonds. I'm obsessed with land. Consider it one of my quirks." She shook her head but didn't argue. By then she was used to my eccentricities and had learned to trust my decisions even when they looked insane. Besides land, I was actively hunting for technology. The computer industry was expanding rapidly, and I wanted a piece of that growth. But here I ran into a problem I couldn't solve with money or connections. Stark Industries.

Howard Stark, whom I had continued to avoid, had decided to take computers seriously. His research laboratories were developing their own processors, operating systems, and peripheral equipment. The budgets he could throw at the problem exceeded my entire annual revenue. Trying to compete with him directly would mean a war of attrition I had no chance of winning. So I chose a different strategy. Instead of building my own computers, I started buying the things that made computers useful: software and licenses.

Digital Research, Gary Kildall's company, turned out to be very useful. I had recently managed to secure an expanded licensing agreement with them, including the right to create derivative products based on CP/M. That gave us a foundation for developing our own operating systems using Kildall's architecture as a starting point. I hired a team of programmers and gave them a simple objective: build an operating system optimized for our 6502 processors and future generations of MOS chips.

The project was called AegisOS, and although it was still a long way from a finished product, the foundation was being laid now. At the same time, I made a serious effort to poach experienced specialists from competing companies and tied the gaming division into the project, since some of the best programmers in the country were already working there.

You could say I intended to establish myself in this field so thoroughly that, eventually, people would come to me looking for specialists simply because there would be nowhere else to find them. The best hackers, the best systems architects, the best developers. They either worked for Aegis already or soon would. At the same time, I was buying small software companies developing business applications: word processors, spreadsheets, databases.

Most were tiny outfits with two or three programmers working out of garages or basements. I paid them respectable money for the rights to their work and usually offered them jobs in our growing software division. MicroPro International, creators of the WordMaster word processor, cost me a ridiculous eighty thousand dollars. Software Arts, which was developing a prototype spreadsheet, cost a hundred and twenty thousand.

Dozens of deals like that slowly built an intellectual-property portfolio that would one day become priceless. ARPANET already connected research centers and universities across the country. TCP/IP protocols were still under development. I couldn't buy internet technology because, commercially speaking, it didn't exist yet, but I could prepare the company for the moment when it did. Through a network of intermediaries and research grants, I financed networking research at MIT and Stanford.

In return, I received early access to developments and guaranteed licensing rights to the results. The sums involved were relatively small, fifty to a hundred thousand dollars per year for each university, but they bought me a seat at the table when the time came to divide up the pie. BBN Technologies, the company that had built the first ARPANET nodes and was developing key networking protocols, agreed to a "strategic partnership" after I offered to fund their research without demanding control.

They received money to continue development, while I received access to their work and some ability to influence the direction of their research.

"You're spending hundreds of thousands on academic projects," Chen complained during one meeting.

"Computer networks used by three and a half people. Explain to me what the point is. Especially considering our research department is already bloated beyond reason. Wouldn't it be easier to give this work to them?"

"They're busy with other projects that are no less promising," I replied.

"Poor Finneas and Kozlowski are already drowning in improvements to everything we make. They only just finished our laboratory." I stopped. I had just stepped onto very thin ice. So much money had disappeared into that place that Chen had come to hate it with all her heart. Still, in terms of equipment and the overall design of the complex, we had surpassed even the leading university research institutes. That happened when you let a genius design the place with complete freedom and practically no budget limit.

"Exactly, Mr. Miller," she said, her voice turning cold.

"Three and a half million dollars for one laboratory. I think you're beginning to forget the value of money." Not wanting to argue, I said the first thing that came to mind.

"It's not that much. We spent a million and a half building the studio in Santa Clara…" The studio, located in what would eventually become Silicon Valley, had originally been purchased when I entered the gaming market, but it was gradually becoming far more than a simple production site. I kept investing in it, building infrastructure, attracting specialists, buying surrounding property.

Our brand-new laboratory could satisfy even the most exotic requests from the people working there, which naturally created ridiculous costs in design and custom equipment, but it also made the studio genuinely innovative. I pinched the bridge of my nose. There were exactly two subjects you did not mention around Chen: the laboratory and the California project. And somehow I had managed to bring up both in the same conversation. My execution lasted an hour.

Chen methodically went through every category of spending, every "unjustified" investment, every project that still wasn't generating profit. I listened, nodded, agreed with some of her points, and refused to move on the issues that mattered. By the end of the conversation, we were both exhausted, but we had reached something resembling a ceasefire. She continued to think my investments in the future were insane, I continued making them. That was our working dynamic, and I had to admit I liked it.

MOS Technology, under Chuck Peddle, continued to develop. The 6502 received several upgrades that improved performance and reduced power consumption. At the same time, the team was working on the next generation, the 65C816, a sixteen-bit processor intended to become a bridge toward more powerful computing systems. Graphics became a separate direction. Jay Miner, whom I had poached from Atari, led the development of specialized graphics chips.

In 1978, the concept of a "graphics card" as a separate product did not really exist. Graphics were handled either by the central processor or by primitive display controllers. But I knew where the industry was going. Our game consoles already used custom chips to accelerate rendering, and that gave us a major advantage over competitors. Now Miner was working on something more ambitious: a graphics coprocessor that could be installed in personal computers.

We were still far from a true graphics card, but there was no harm in laying the groundwork early. I bought patents wherever I could find them. I didn't remember the exact names of every company from my old world, so I solved the problem the way I usually did: throw enough money into a wide enough net and something useful was bound to get caught. Chip-manufacturing technologies, lithography methods for placing circuits onto silicon wafers, memory architectures, methods of connecting chips together.

Bankrupt startups sold their developments for pennies just to satisfy creditors. Signetics, which was going through a rough period after several failed investments, sold me a package of twelve patents covering integrated-circuit manufacturing technologies for a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Intersil, which specialized in low-power technology, sold us licenses to its developments without understanding just how important power efficiency would become once portable electronics took off.

The research laboratories of major corporations were sitting on mountains of patents that didn't fit their core businesses and had been left to gather dust. From Xerox PARC, I acquired several patents covering bitmap graphics and user-interface technologies they considered side products of their research. They were too busy thinking about copiers to understand the gold they were holding.

IBM sold me patents covering several memory architectures they had no use for in their mainframes but that were perfectly suitable for personal computers. University spin-offs needed financing and were willing to trade rights to their work for grants. A group of researchers at Berkeley was working on new processor technologies, and I funded them in exchange for an exclusive commercial license to the results.

At Stanford, I financed a project developing new lithography techniques that could produce smaller features on integrated circuits. All of this was slowly becoming a patent portfolio that gave me confidence about the future. I didn't need to own the entire market, and frankly, I didn't even want to. But I intended to bite off a very solid piece of it without having to work particularly hard for every cent.

Every computer sold, every television with digital electronics, every electronic device could eventually send a few cents of royalties into my pocket. And someday, billions of those devices would be sold.

With so many serious businesses and projects to worry about, I had almost forgotten about entertainment. It was as if my attention simply never drifted in that direction anymore. That changed when I walked into the studio where our game developers worked. The atmosphere there was completely different from the strict offices of our New York headquarters. Posters with concept art and storyboards for upcoming games covered the walls. Someone had brought in a neon sign that read Game Over? Insert Coin!

, and it blinked above the entrance to the testing room. Programmers sat at desks buried under Coke cans, pizza boxes, and printouts of code. Some kind of rock music played through the speakers, and nobody even thought about turning it down when the boss walked in. Someone immediately brought me coffee made in a cezve. Everyone here knew the boss's preferences, and I had managed to get quite a few of them hooked on this way of making it. I had come because we were supposed to hold a major meeting.

Alan Shugart, our lead game developers, the programming team, Chuck Peddle—everyone had agreed to come in and discuss our development strategy for the next year. But I had arrived a little too early. There was still about an hour before we were supposed to begin. I sat down on a worn couch in the corner and watched the testers put one of our new games through its paces.

Somewhere between the music and the images on the screen, I unexpectedly slipped into memories of the games from the future that had kept me up late in my previous life. All-night RPG sessions where the story pulled you in so completely that morning arrived before you noticed. Online battles with friends scattered across the world. Cinematic action games where the line between a movie and a game almost disappeared.

That was when I remembered that it was probably time to start buying things in the entertainment business as well. Unfortunately, I didn't remember nearly as much about this field as I would have liked. Once again, I would have to cast a wide net and buy anything useful that wasn't nailed down. The Marvel reality complicated matters too: superhero comics as I remembered them simply didn't exist here.

There were only historical comics about Captain America, whose image practically belonged to the entire country as a national symbol. But that could wait. The first step was acquiring adaptation rights. Literary agencies were buried under manuscripts nobody wanted to adapt. Science fiction, fantasy, horror—all of it was still considered niche, commercially questionable material, good mostly for cheap television. Hollywood remained obsessed with realism, dramas, and historical epics. I knew that would change.

Or rather, it had already started changing. Star Wars had exploded at the box office and proved that science fiction could be big business. Spielberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind had only reinforced the trend. In a few years, Hollywood studios would be fighting over the rights to every decent science-fiction novel they could find. For now, I could buy those rights for next to nothing. Through a network of shell companies and agents, I acquired options to adapt dozens of science-fiction novels.

Isaac Asimov's Foundation, the entire series, cost a ridiculous forty thousand dollars. Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, which in my world would become the cult classic Blade Runner with Ford, cost me eight thousand. Frank Herbert's Dune, which studios would soon be fighting over, went for twenty-five thousand. The agents barely even negotiated, so eager were they to unload this supposedly unmarketable "junk." The rights to The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit were a separate stroke of luck.

Tolkien's estate was in a strange legal position in those years. Saul Zaentz Company held the film rights firmly, and there was no point trying to get involved there. They had just released Bakshi's animated adaptation and obviously had no intention of selling anything. But the full rights for video games and merchandising were still available, and that was more than enough for me.

My lawyers spent four months untangling the mess, but in the end we got what we wanted: the rights to create video games, board games, and related merchandise based on Middle-earth. For a ridiculous hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Horror was its own category. Adaptation rights to Stephen King's early works could still be bought relatively cheaply, before Carrie and The Shining turned his name into gold.

I took'Salem's Lot for fifteen thousand, The Dead Zone for twelve, Firestarter for ten, Cujo for eight, Christine for seven. Anything his agent was willing to sell. King was a prolific writer, and I intended to get as much value as possible out of every one of his books. But I didn't limit myself to adaptation rights. I went through the industry with the same wide net, buying anything interesting that looked undervalued.

Thanks to my intelligence network and the connections Angleton and his people had built, I was seeing opportunities other people missed. Every week, reports landed on my desk about companies in trouble, rights being offered for sale, and projects looking for financing. American International Pictures, once the king of B-movies, was going through hard times. The founders had grown old, the new management was struggling, and competition from major studios and television was squeezing the business.

The company's shares were trading near historic lows, and the market treated it as a likely bankruptcy candidate. AIP owned a library of hundreds of films: classic Vincent Price horror pictures, monster cycles, beach comedies from the sixties, biker movies. It had production facilities, a distribution network and, most importantly, decades of experience making commercially successful films on minimal budgets. The negotiations took three months. Samuel Arkoff, one of the founders, resisted until the very end.

AIP was his creation, and he had no desire to hand control over to some manufacturer of office supplies and video game consoles. I had to meet with him personally three times, demonstrating an understanding of the film business he clearly hadn't expected from me. By the end of the third meeting, the skepticism in his eyes had been replaced by something much closer to approval. In the end, we agreed on four million dollars for the entire company.

Arkoff stayed on as a consultant, and I committed to preserving jobs and continuing film production. AIP became part of Aegis Entertainment alongside the gaming division. Besides AIP, I had my eye on another acquisition: a small animation studio called Filmation that produced television cartoons. Star Trek: The Animated Series, Shazam!, Tarzan —they made cheap but recognizable animation. With my resources and their experience, we could eventually do something much more interesting.

Allied Artists Pictures, once a major studio and formerly known as Monogram Pictures, was balancing on the edge of bankruptcy. Its library contained hundreds of films: noir classics, westerns, crime dramas from the fifties. I got the whole thing for two million dollars when creditors were already practically pounding on the door. Avco Embassy Pictures was dealing with similar problems.

I couldn't buy the company outright, but I secured exclusive television-distribution rights to part of its catalog for seven hundred thousand dollars, including several films that would eventually become staples of late-night television. National General Pictures had closed back in 1973, but the rights to its library were still being sold off in pieces. My agents methodically bought anything that came onto the market, spending roughly three hundred thousand dollars in total on scattered packages of rights.

I left those acquisitions in the hands of competent people and went back to poaching specialists. Directors working in television and dreaming of feature films. Screenwriters whose projects had spent years gathering dust on studio shelves. Production designers, cinematographers, editors. I wasn't planning to personally dive into film production just yet, but the business could already function on its own with the investments I had made and the franchises I had acquired.

They could produce decent work without constant supervision from me, and over time the whole operation could be integrated with my laboratories and programmers to develop a new generation of visual effects. I gave AIP's new management one simple directive: make good genre films. No chasing Oscars, no arthouse experiments. Solid stories, good acting, and the maximum possible return on every dollar invested. But there was one film I did decide to take seriously.

I knew it would work, and the new company desperately needed a major success under its new ownership. A project that would prove Aegis Entertainment had come to Hollywood to stay. Dan O'Bannon's script titled Alien had been circulating around studios for months, and nobody wanted it. Science fiction mixed with horror was considered too strange a combination and too risky for serious investment. Studio executives read the script, frowned, and threw it aside.

A spaceship, a creature from an egg, a female lead instead of a male hero—it all looked far too strange for conservative Hollywood. Not to me. The film would earn more than a hundred million dollars and create a franchise that would survive for decades. The Xenomorph would become one of cinema's most recognizable monsters, and Ellen Ripley would go down in history as one of the greatest heroines ever put on screen. My people reached O'Bannon when he had nearly given up.

We offered him a respectable budget, creative freedom and, most importantly, faith in what he was trying to make. Negotiations took two weeks. By the end of the month, the contract was signed, and Alien officially became the first major project of the rebuilt Aegis Entertainment. Now we only needed the right director. I already had a name in mind: a young British filmmaker who had recently made The Duellists. Ridley Scott. A man with the visual instincts to turn that script into something unforgettable.

By the end of 1978, the combined revenue of all Aegis Industries divisions had exceeded one hundred and sixty million dollars. Net profit after all expenses, reinvestment, and acquisitions came to roughly fourteen million. Those numbers honestly took my breath away. With that kind of money, I could change a great deal if I kept putting it into the right places. Chen placed the annual report in front of me, and I flipped through the pages, not quite believing the figures I was seeing.

She gave a quiet snort and tapped a finger against the net-income line.

"That number would be eleven million higher if you hadn't suddenly decided to get into the film industry." She shook her head.

"Still, even with your quirks, as you like to call them, the picture is impressive. If you keep going at this rate, the company will be worth more than a billion dollars within five years."

"Of course, dear Margaret," I replied with a smile.

"And that's despite all your complaining."

"I'll admit, I don't understand how this works. You do things that make absolutely no sense, and somehow they pay off. I suppose I'll just consider it the behavior of a genius."

"Yes, yes, exactly. How about some coffee? We still need to allocate the cash flow for next quarter."

"Fine, coffee it is, Mr. Miller." She began gathering the papers, then paused.

"By the way, where is James Wesley? I haven't seen him in the office for a week."

"He's been pulled in every direction lately too. He's overseeing both footwear and film."

"You're a monster."

"Yes, I know." At least as far as money was concerned, I could relax a little. Even if I stopped doing anything right now, the company would keep growing. Too many divisions were already operating on autopilot, too many talented people knew exactly what they were doing, and the foundation had become too strong. There simply wasn't any realistic way for the whole thing to sink anymore, short of something truly catastrophic happening. Still, I needed to keep my finger on the pulse.

I opened my planner and started mapping out the next year.