Pennsylvania, Oil Creek.
Thousands of derricks stood packed along the riverbank, and between them a black pipeline snaked forward in silence.
It was a Standard Transportation Company oil line.
At its end loomed a vast crude-oil depot. Rows of black tank cars stamped with the words "Standard Oil" waited like greedy ants, siphoning the lifeblood of the land without pause.
For the independent refiners, this was a nightmare.
Jack McDowell sat in his shabby office, staring at the waybill just delivered, hands shaking.
"Three-fifty? Another hike!" he roared at the railway clerk. "That's more than the oil's worth—why not just rob me at gunpoint?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. McDowell; the increase isn't my call," the clerk answered helplessly.
"You people are driving us to our graves!"
"Just following the rules." The clerk shrugged. "Sell to Standard Oil or ship through their pipe and you'll get a discount."
"Sell to them?" McDowell sneered. "Their price won't even cover costs—it's daylight robbery!"
"But that's the market rate." The clerk dropped the line and walked out.
McDowell slumped into his chair.
Thousands of barrels sat in his warehouse, evaporating and leaking in the summer heat because they couldn't be moved.
If a fire started now, everything would turn to ash.
Just then hoofbeats sounded outside.
Two well-dressed men entered; in front was Caleb White, Standard Oil's vice-president.
"Mr. McDowell?" Caleb lifted his hat and fanned himself. "Damn, it's hot."
"Who are you?" McDowell eyed them warily.
"Here to solve your problems." Caleb pulled over a chair. "Heard your oil can't be shipped? Stockpile weighing you down?"
"What's it to you?"
"I'm with Standard Oil," Caleb said bluntly. "We want to buy your refinery—land, plant, inventory, the lot."
"Not for sale," McDowell snapped, a cat whose tail had been trodden on.
"My father left me this; I'll die before I sell to that New York vampire."
"Hey, easy, partner."
Caleb waved a hand and took out an appraisal report.
"We've run your numbers. You won't last two weeks; the bank's about to foreclose. Sell now and we'll give you a fair figure."
He held up three fingers.
"Three thousand dollars."
"Three?" McDowell laughed in outrage.
"My gear alone's worth five, and the crude two more—and you offer three?"
"Those contraptions?"
Caleb pointed at the rusty stills outside the window.
"Junk from the last era—safety specs and yield rates don't meet Standard Oil standards. We'll sell them as scrap. As for the oil—stock that can't move is worthless."
"Three grand, cash."
He slapped a wad of bills on the desk.
"Enough to clear your debts and buy a farm out west for a quiet life. Refuse…
Caleb rose, reached the door, and looked back.
"Next week rail freight might hit four. Then you won't even get scrap value."
McDowell stared at the money, then at the black pipeline outside.
The pipe was a noose, tightening around his throat.
He knew this wasn't a negotiation—it was an ultimatum.
At last, with trembling fingers, he took the cash.
"Take it," he rasped. "Take the lot. I never want to see a drop of this damned oil again."
…The same scene played out across Oil Creek Valley.
Caleb and his buy-out team circled like patient vultures over the dying industrial belt.
Independent refineries folded one after another; derricks changed hands.
The fortune-hunters who once dreamed of riches walked away with meager checks, heads hung low.
All resources converged under a single name—Standard Oil.
New York, Fifth Avenue.
Felix sat in his study, poring over the monthly report Peter Jenkins had delivered.
"The New Jersey refinery's first phase is at full capacity," Frost explained. "Five thousand barrels a day. Standard Blue Tin kerosene now commands sixty percent of East Coast market share."
"Sixty percent," Felix nodded. "Not bad—but not enough."
He picked up a sample blue tin. Its enamel finish, sealed screw-cap, and bold anti-forgery label made it look more an industrial artwork than a fuel container.
"Too many off-brands still out there," Felix said. "Shoddy kerosene from backyard stills explodes and burns housewives' faces. It hurts the whole trade."
"What do you propose, Boss?"
"We launch a Safety Campaign." Felix's eyes glinted.
"Contact every paper—from The New York Times to the smallest county sheet. Run stories on 'inferior-kerosene blasts.' Use photos, make them grisly. Tell the public only the Standard brand is safe."
"Have Umbrella's chemists issue a report proving the blue-tin oil is desulfurized and refined, with a high flash-point—no explosions. We equate 'blue' with 'safe.'"
"We want shoppers to shudder at the sight of loose, yellowish oil in grocery stores."
"Call it… a brand moat."
Frost scribbled fast—another classic Argyle-style dimension-reduction strike.
"Also," Felix set the tin down, "how are things in Europe?"
"Mr. Finley cabled," Frost replied. "The first kerosene shipment is a sensation in London and Paris—odorless, bright, dubbed 'liquid candle' by the gentry. But local gas companies are fighting back, lobbying for higher import tariffs."
"Gas companies?" Felix snorted. "Relics of the old age."
"Tell Finley not to worry about tariffs. Get Ashworth and Leroy to lobby. Tell the Brits and French: if they want cheap American wheat and beef, they take our oil—bundle deal."
"Also, have MacGregor speed up new-ship construction. Barrels are too slow and costly. Didn't he mention an 'oil-tanker' idea?"
"Yes—build tanks right into the hold, bulk transport."
"Approved," Felix said. "Build one as a test. If it works, we leave every competitor in the dust."
He walked to the window and gazed at the bustling street.
Night fell; gas lamps flickered on one by one.
"This is only the beginning."
Washington D.C.
The Potomac valley's muggy heat clung to the city like every other year, sticky and oppressive.
Though the war had ended two months ago and Richmond's smoke had cleared, the capital's air still shimmered with restlessness.
It was the mingled scent of victory's revelry and post-war reckoning.
At four in the afternoon, sunlight slanted across Pennsylvania Avenue.
An unusually heavy four-wheeler rolled out of the White House side gate.
A burly Union veteran held the reins, scanning the street with taut vigilance.
Inside, President Abraham Lincoln lifted his trademark stovepipe hat from his head and rested it on his knee.
He looked paler than at the dinner half a year earlier, dark hollows beneath his eyes holding both fatigue and deep foreboding.
"Mary," he murmured, patting his wife's hand, "just a quick look at the navy yard—Secretary Welles's request. To see the ironclads. We'll be back soon."
Mary Todd Lincoln, taut as a wire, clutched his arm.
"Going out now is dangerous, Abe. Lee may have surrendered, but the city's full of Southern refugees—and men with hard eyes. I had nightmares last night."
"Don't worry." Lincoln forced a smile. "Stanton sent cavalry. And—"
He rapped the inner wall.
Instead of hollow wood, a dull, solid thud answered: knock-knock.
"Remember the carriage Felix sent?" Lincoln said.
"Lex Steel's 'special edition,' he called it. Steel plates between the panels. Heavy, slower horses, but he swore it could stop a bison charge."
Mary eased a fraction, though her brows stayed knit.
The coach entered the avenue; pedestrians paused, some doffing hats, others staring coldly.
Cavalry escorts fanned out, yet the crowded street and the carriage's weight kept the pace slow.
As it rolled past a bustling tavern—
a man in a gray trench coat and waxed mustache burst from the crowd, swift as a viper from grass.
John Wilkes Booth, famed actor and fanatical Southern sympathizer.
Barely five yards from the coach.
The troopers, busy clearing a dray ahead, missed the ordinary-looking threat at the flank.
Booth whipped out a large-bore Deringer pistol.
"Tyrant!"
His roar cut through the street's din.
He raised the barrel at the silhouetted hat inside the window.
Bang!
First shot.
Common window-glass shattered into glittering shards.
Lincoln jerked back; Mary screamed and flung herself over him.
"Yah!"
The driver reacted instantly, lashing the reins. The startled draft horses lunged, yanking the heavy coach forward.
The sudden lurch saved Lincoln's life.
Booth, poised for a fatal second shot through the broken pane, lost balance as the carriage surged; his arm dropped.
He missed the window.
Yet he didn't quit. The coach's side now slid past him.
With manic glee he fired point-blank at what looked like painted wood.
"Die!"
Sure the .44 lead would punch through thin planks and into the tyrant's body.
Bang!
The second shot boomed closer, louder—wood chips flew.
A savage, triumphant grin split Booth's face.
Then it froze.
A metallic screech rang out—impossible.
Clang!
Not the thud of lead in flesh, but the shriek of a slug that pierced wood only to slam into unyielding steel, flattening into a wafer.
The coach never slowed, racing ahead under cavalry guard.
Booth watched it vanish, disbelief replacing exultation.
"Impossible…" he whispered. "Wood… why steel…?"
Troopers wheeled, sabers flashing as they charged.
"Seize him!"
Before Booth could flee, a horse bowled him over and army boots slammed into his face… Inside the carriage—
Mary still screamed, clinging to her husband, shaking.
"Abe! Abe! Are you bleeding?"
Lincoln straightened slowly, hand to his ribs opposite the fresh bullet hole.
No blood.
He turned to the wall.
Oak paneling gaped, revealing a dull gray metal layer beneath.
The warped slug smoked, embedded a hair's breadth from penetration.
Prometheus alloy.
Lex Steel's special steel for blast doors and gun shields. Felix Argyle had Coleman line the entire coach with half-inch plates before gifting it.
Lincoln's trembling fingers traced the still-warm hole.
"I'm all right, Mary," he rasped, voice weak with aftermath. "It… stopped."
He stared at the steel, eyes unreadable.
"Seems," Lincoln murmured, "we now owe Felix… a debt we can never repay."