While the tycoons were dividing the spoils in the smoke-filled room, Militech had already begun its operations.
Due to Felix's strong insistence, Militech's Security Department had evolved from a simple security force into a highly professional private armed service.
These security personnel wore dark blue uniforms, sported Militech's unique silver winged badges, and were equipped with Militech's latest improved Vanguard 1864 Rifles and Type 65 Pistols.
New York, Dock Warehouse District.
Frost was checking the final batch of supplies destined for the South against the manifest.
"Will this thing actually work, Mr. Frost?"
Silas, the captain of the security detachment, asked, pointing at a row of long, tubular objects gleaming with a metallic luster inside the box.
Those were the first batch of experimental scopes developed by Argyle Central Laboratory.
"Shut your mouth, Silas."
Frost shot him an annoyed glance; clearly, the two were familiar with each other.
"You should know this is an optical instrument that those lunatics at the Central Laboratory spent half a year developing. Although the light is a little dim due to refraction issues, it allows you to clearly see those rebellious guerrillas from three hundred yards away. The Boss invested enough money into this single box to buy half of Charleston."
Silas chuckled, patting the rifle in his arms.
"Hey... I certainly trust the Boss, but you know, this thing can't afford to fail on the battlefield, or God will send me to heaven early, pal."
As a former ace sharpshooter of the Federal Army, he was well aware of the value of such a weapon.
"Remember the Boss' instructions: your primary goal in going South this time is not to fight a war."
Frost walked up to him and lowered his voice.
"Remember! You are going to establish order. If anyone dares to shoot at our surveyors or attempts to damage the farm tools, there is no need to ask for instructions—deal with them directly according to the company's 'Asset Preservation Act.' The Boss' meaning is clear: the Southern land needs fertility, and those ignorant rebels are the best fertilizer."
"Understood. If anyone dares to cause trouble, I will definitely use a gun barrel to thoroughly destroy his chrysanthemum."
"Loyalty!"
Silas stood at attention and saluted, a hint of brutality in his eyes.
For him, the company was already family. His family members all worked or studied under Felix's companies, and the benefits were excellent.
He already considered himself a vassal of the Argyle Family.
Anyone who dared to touch the interests of the Argyle Family was an enemy.
On the other side of the dock, large quantities of agricultural machinery were being loaded onto ships.
These were high-efficiency planters and deep plows manufactured by the Vanguard Machinery Factory.
Compared to traditional Southern tools, these machines required more coordination.
This was one of the traps Felix had designed.
Once Southern agriculture became dependent on this precision machinery and accompanying chemical fertilizers, the local independent farmers would completely lose the possibility of surviving independently.
They had to rely on Militech's supply system... Argyle Mansion.
Felix was currently sitting in his study, listening to the preparatory report for the "Southern Development Bank."
"Sir, this is Umbrella Corporation's draft proposal for the 'Southern Epidemic Prevention Plan.'"
A young secretary from the Secretariat handed over the document.
Felix opened it and looked; it detailed plans to establish health stations at major leased farms. These health stations would stockpile large amounts of iodoglycerol and medicine targeting Southern malaria.
"Hmm... the plan is very good."
Felix signed the document.
"Tell them that Catherine is not suitable to go to the company these two months, and they must execute the plan well. Also, the drug pricing can be split into two sets. For our contract workers, they can pay with vouchers, and the price can be slightly discounted; for independent farmers who do not wish to join our system, only US dollars or gold coins will be accepted, and the price will be five times higher."
"Additionally, tell Central Laboratory to find a way to increase the scope production. Not only does the Security Department need them, but we can also sell them to the Federal Government's Border Patrol. We must apply for a patent monopoly on this kind of high-profit precision instrument."
The secretary finished recording and was about to leave when Felix suddenly called him back.
"Oh, and one more thing. Check the recent shipping schedules to Britain."
Felix's fingers lightly tapped the desk.
"Old Morgan seems to be restless over there. He is trying to use London newspapers to discredit our 'Land Custody Program' in the South. He intends to use British public opinion to pressure Washington."
"Do we need to retaliate?" the secretary asked curiously.
"Direct conflict is unnecessary."
"Doesn't his company have a huge amount of railway bonds in Britain? Let his agent in New York know that if we are unhappy, those few railways spanning the North might face a 'technical tax audit.'"
The secretary felt a chill in his heart, bowed, and withdrew.
Felix turned around and looked at the distant skyline outside the window.
On the map beneath his feet, the South, once shrouded in smoke and fire, was slowly being covered by a vast net woven from capital, law, security, and vouchers.
Those Southern plantation owners thought they had lost the war, but in reality, they had lost the right to survive in this entire era.
And the black people who thought they had gained freedom would soon discover that although the iron chains had been removed from their necks, they faced an invisible yoke of debt and systematic oppression.
Felix understood this cruel reality intimately. He had traveled to Africa for business in his previous life and had witnessed firsthand the mechanisms of exploitation. Now, witnessing the same patterns emerging in the postwar South, he refused to become another architect of bondage.
"This cannot continue," Felix muttered to himself, his voice cutting through the summer evening breeze. "Not while I have the means to act."
What surprised those who knew him was that Felix did not simply feel guilt—he felt purpose. His company, Militech, had capital, resources, and reach. It could be wielded differently than it had been wielded before.
He began acquiring land in the South.
He established wage contracts that were scrupulously honest, with Black workers receiving fair compensation.
He funded schools on company land. He provided agricultural equipment and training to freedmen, helping them transition from wage labor to ownership.
He would turn the South into a beast of industrial agriculture.
*********
Three days later, the steamship carrying Militech's agricultural machinery, educational materials, and construction supplies sailed out of New York Harbor, bound not for exploitation, but for transformation.
On the deck of the flagship, Silas was fiddling with his new scope. In the lens, distant New York appeared exceptionally clear, yet imbued with a chilling quality.
Meanwhile, in the ruins of Charleston in the South, several guerrillas, regarded as heroes by the locals, were ambushed in the bushes, waiting for the so-called "Northern Plunderers."
These men held tattered muskets, their hearts filled with fanaticism for their homeland.
Unfortunately, they did not know that they would be met by professionals from Militech who possessed the ability to conduct precise sniping from hundreds of yards away.
The gears of the era began to turn.
A thousand miles away in New York, Felix gently turned a page in his ledger. Every number recorded there would transform into a new splash of blood on the Southern land and heavy cotton bolls.
"A new order always requires someone to lay the foundation. Don't blame me."
He murmured softly to the empty study.
The next day, Felix sat behind the desk in his Empire Building office, looking through several thick stacks of new proofs placed on the table.
They had just been delivered from the printing factory, and the smell of ink had not yet dissipated.
These papers were slightly smaller than US dollar bills, and their edges were printed with intricate vine patterns.
A row of bold characters was printed across the top: Vanguard Joint Development Company Voucher.
"Felix, are these the wages you plan to send to the South?"
Thomas Clark sat on the sofa opposite him, holding a five-cent denomination paper Voucher, observing it repeatedly.
"You could say that, Thomas," Felix leaned back in his chair.
"You have to understand that Washington cannot allocate money to aid the Freedmen right now. And Stevens wants them to acquire land, but he can't provide the US dollars to buy seeds. These papers are the seeds, farm tools, and bread."
"Would Stevens agree to this kind of private currency circulating in the South?" Thomas Clark raised an eyebrow. "This looks like undermining the Federal Bank."
"Thomas, it's not currency; it's just a prepaid labor certificate issued by our company to its employees."
Felix corrected him, stating that he dared not mess with the idea of currency right now.
"You should know that I added a clause to the appendix of the bill: within the concession area, to guarantee the progress of reconstruction, operating companies are permitted to issue Internal Settlement Vouchers of equivalent value. These Vouchers can be used to purchase living supplies provided by the company. In exchange, Vanguard Joint Company will take on the maintenance of public facilities in that area."
Clark tossed the paper Voucher back onto the table and chuckled.
"Ultimately, it's just moving black people from the slave owner's ledger to Militech's ledger."
"My friend, you shouldn't put it that way. In the current South, if they don't have a ledger, they will starve, won't they?"
Felix stood up, walked to the map, and pointed to an area in South Carolina.
"The first batch of charters from the Administration has been issued. This area covers about 300,000 acres, distributed among fourteen large plantations. Since the owners participated in the rebellion, this land now all belongs to the Administration. I have already negotiated with several textile magnates; we must see this place covered in cotton next spring."
Clark stepped forward and looked at the map with him.
"This requires manpower to watch over those lands. The Southern Guerrillas haven't disbanded, and those disgruntled former Confederacy soldiers are hiding in the woods, ready to shoot your surveyors at any moment."
"That's why I prepared another product."
Felix pulled open a drawer and took out a document.
"Militech's Security Department has completed its reorganization. I established a dedicated 'Southern Security Protection Corps.' Most of the members are soldiers recently retired from the Potomac Corps. They have combat experience and are now desperately in need of work."
"Have you cleared this with Stanton?" Thomas Clark asked.
"Of course. The War Department will issue them a 'Temporary Militia' commission. This means that if they open fire on my territory, they are protected by law."
Felix turned his head, his gaze profound.
"What we are doing is not simple commerce. We are establishing a complete ecosystem on that ruin. Umbrella provides medicine and sanitation guidance, Vanguard Security provides safety, the Metropolitan Trading Company provides food. And the Southern land and labor provide cotton and various crops."
The door was gently pushed open, and Frost walked in. He looked tired, holding a shipping manifest in his hand.
"Boss, the second batch of cargo ships has finished loading at Newark Port. Thirty Heavy Deep-Plowing Machines, two hundred cases of Vanguard Model 1864 Rifles, and ten thousand bottles of iodoglycerol and two thousand boxes of Fever Reducers donated by Umbrella."
"Donated?" Clark looked at Felix in confusion.
"Yes, donated."
Felix smiled, "We will publicize through newspapers that the Umbrella Corporation cares about its Southern brothers and provides free medical aid. But in practice, these medicines will be stored in the Sanitation Stations we establish. Want medicine? Sure, exchange it for proof of work hours."
Clark shook his head, feeling somewhat helpless.
"You understand how to deal with those Southern hardliners better than Stevens. He uses whips and laws, while you use bread and medicine."
"No, I just understand the liquidity of capital better."
Felix looked at Frost. "Has Silas arrived?"
"He should be soon," Frost replied.
"He brought five squads, all hand-picked sharpshooters. The batch of Optical Sights from the Argyle Central Laboratory has also been distributed to the teams. Before leaving, he said that if the enemy dared to show their heads, he would feed bullets into those guerrilla holes."
"Tell him not to cause trouble in downtown Charleston," Felix instructed.
"They need to appear like merchants going to build things. Conflicts must happen in the plantations outside the city. There are no newspaper reporters there, only silent forests."
"Understood." Frost turned and left.
Silence returned to the office. Clark stood up and buttoned his suit jacket.
"Are you really not going to greet Old Morgan? His friends in England have been causing quite a stir in Parliament recently. They claim that the North's actions are completely destroying free trade."
"Old Morgan has stayed in London too long; he has forgotten who sets the rules for the States now."
Felix walked to the window, watching the street with interest.
"I hope your 'Paper Shackles' can truly restrain that Southern beast. I'll be leaving now. Oh, and Felix, Anna said she wants to stay in New York for a while to relax. Help me look after her."
Clark glanced at the posturing Felix, left that remark, and prepared to push the door open and exit.
"No problem. With her here, Catherine will have someone to talk to while staying at home."
Charleston Port.
Wreckage floated on the sea surface, and the port cranes were half-submerged, covered in rust.
The steam freighter slowly approached the shore, its iron anchor dropping into the water and kicking up a splash of murky spray.
On the deck, Silas pulled down the brim of his hat, shielding his eyes from the harsh midday sun. He was dressed in a dark blue uniform, with Vanguard Security's silver shield patch sewn onto his right arm. Behind him, teams of security personnel in identical attire stood silently in formation, carrying rifles.
"Boss, this place smells worse than the swamps of Virginia."
A security guard complained under his breath, tightly gripping the rifle equipped with a precision scope.
"Stop your complaining, Borg." Silas didn't turn his head.
"Here, you get an extra five dollars for every plantation you secure. If you perform well, the Boss will even arrange jobs for your family."
"I understand." Borg chuckled.
The hatch opened, and heavy wooden planks were laid down onto the pier.
The first things to disembark were not the security guards, but deep cultivators and seeders.
A group of local white men with sullen expressions stood around the pier. They wore ragged robes, and some were missing arms.
Their land was confiscated, their houses requisitioned, and now they could only watch these Yankees brazenly unload their cargo.
"Hey! That's my warehouse!"
A man with a stubbled face rushed out. "You bandits! That property belongs to the Black family."
Silas walked down the gangplank, his hand resting on the holster of the Vanguard Model 65 pistol at his waist.
"Mr. Black, if you had read last week's Southern Morning Post, you would know that this area is now under the trusteeship of the Federal Land Asset Management Bureau."
Silas' voice was flat, his attitude uncompromising.
"Our Development Company has the lease rights here. If you have any objections, you can complain in Washington. But until then, stay away from my machines. OK?"
"You'll all go to hell, you bastards!"
Black spat, his hand instinctively reaching into his coat.
"Clack."
Dozens of crisp bolt-action sounds rang out simultaneously.
Seeing his movement, the security guards on the pier leveled their rifles in unison, the dark muzzles pointing at Black and the surrounding locals.
Silas' expression hardened, and he looked at the man with dangerous eyes.
"I suggest you keep your hands where I can see them. My men just came off the battlefield and they're jumpy. If an accidental discharge happens, I doubt anyone will be around to bury you."
Black froze.
Looking at the dark gun barrels, he felt a pressure unlike anything he had ever experienced.
Finally, he lowered his hands resentfully and retreated into the shadows.
"Transport the supplies to Oak Manor."
Silas waved. "Borg, take your squad to the flank. If anyone tries to approach the convoy, fire a warning shot immediately. If they are carrying weapons, then no warning shot is necessary."
"Yes, sir!"
The convoy began to move slowly.
On the outskirts of Charleston, the cotton fields that were once flat were now overgrown with waist-high weeds.
Burnt fences lay along the roadside like rows of broken teeth.
When the convoy passed a low shantytown, large groups of black people emerged. They watched the armed force hesitantly, their eyes holding both hope and a deeper fear.
"Stop."
Silas signaled the convoy to slow down. He jumped off the vehicle and pulled a sack from a carriage.
"Who is the leader here?" he shouted.
An old black man walked out tremblingly; one of his eyes was blind, and he was skin and bones.
"Sir, we mean no harm..."
Silas didn't waste words; he sliced open the sack directly. White flour spilled out.
"I am the Security Chief of Militech. Of course, you can also call us the Public Security Corps. We are reopening Oak Manor. We need people there for ditch digging and weeding, and also for farming."
Silas picked up a stack of green and white vouchers and waved them in the air.
"You can register at the manor gate. Everyone gets a five-cent voucher a day, plus one full meal. If you bring your dependents, there will also be extra medicine provided by Umbrella Corporation."
The black people stirred with a low murmur.
"Medicine?" the old black man asked tremulously. "Is it the kind that cures Cold-and-Heat Sickness (malaria)?"
"As long as you put your thumbprint on the Militech contract, that medicine will certainly be available."
Silas patted the sack. "Don't sit here waiting to die. We didn't just bring guns; we brought a way to live. Go on, don't keep me waiting too long."
The convoy continued moving.
Two hours later, Silas stood on the balcony of Oak Manor's dilapidated main building.
His deputy, Borg, walked over, holding a rifle and pointing toward the woods three hundred yards away.
"Boss, there are eyes in the woods."
"I know, I see them." Silas adjusted the focus on his binoculars.
Through the high-magnification lens developed by the Central Laboratory, he could clearly see several horsemen holding muskets and spying on them from the shadows of the trees.
They were local militias.
"They want to check out our strength." Silas lowered the binoculars. "Give them a greeting."
"Now?" Borg was startled.
"Why not? Pick out the one on the red horse—that's probably their leader. Don't kill him, just break the horse's leg."
Borg nodded, lay prone on the balcony railing, took a slow, deep breath, and peered into the scope.
Within the circular field of view, the red horse was exceptionally clear. He adjusted his breathing and slowly squeezed the trigger.
"Bang!"
A muffled gunshot sounded, and smoke puffed from the muzzle.
Three seconds later, a sharp neighing sound came from the edge of the distant woods. The red horse suddenly collapsed, violently throwing its rider off its back. The surrounding woods instantly descended into chaos, and several figures panicked and scrambled into the depths, no longer daring to show their faces.
"Wow, good shot." Silas said flatly.
"It's just that the scope is too effective." Borg touched the scope with appreciation. "It's like pulling the enemy right up close."
"This is only the beginning."
Silas looked down at the black workers who were already starting to gather, and the Umbrella medicine chests being unloaded.
"Send someone to tell the workers that the store will open tomorrow morning. Tell them to maintain order."
Outside the manor, the setting sun was like blood, shining on the abandoned cotton fields.
In that land ravaged by war, a seed named Capital was quietly breaking through the soil, accompanied by the smell of gunpowder and the scent of vouchers.
Oak Manor, South Carolina.
The morning mist had not yet lifted, but a line had already formed in front of the freshly whitewashed cabin at the center of the estate.
The cabin had once been old man Blake's tobacco-drying shed; now Pioneer United's work gang had turned it into the "United Store."
A striking wooden sign hung by the door, painted with the company logo and a neat line of letters
Rationed by coupon: flour, salt pork, steel ploughs, medicine.
Old Moses stood at the head of the queue, clutching a crumpled slip of paper—the first "pay stub" of his life, though it was really just a promissory note on account.
"Next."
Behind the counter a bespectacled white clerk rapped on the table.
An accountant sent down from New York by the government, his eyes were cold.
Moses shuffled forward and handed over the scrap.
"Name."
"Moses, sir. Folks call me Old Moses."
"Moses… got it." The government clerk ticked the ledger. "Per contract, you and your family of six drew your first month's work-points in advance—thirty coupons in all."
He slid open a drawer, counted thirty green-patterned chits, and pushed them across.
Moses took them with calloused hands, as though they were fragile treasure. Lincoln's face stared back from the paper; the old man's eyes misted.
"Is this… money?" he whispered.
"It's coupons," the clerk corrected. "Better than money. Here, only these buy food."
"Then… I'd like some flour. And that fever medicine."
"Flour's five a sack. Umbrella Tonic's three a bottle." He jerked a thumb at the shelves behind him.
Moses hesitated. He couldn't read, but he could count—two sacks and a bottle would eat half his thirty. That was the month's food money for six souls.
"Sir, isn't that a bit dear?" he asked carefully. "Back in Charleston market—"
"This isn't Charleston." The clerk cut him off, voice flat.
"This is Oak Manor. The outside markets are ash; no one sells to you. And this is fine flour shipped from New York, not sand-laced swill."
"Buy, or don't."
Moses glanced back. At the end of the line his little grandson stared, stomach growling.
"I'll buy." He gritted his teeth and pushed the coupons across.
When the deal was done the clerk entered another line in the ledger.
"Remember, Moses." He tapped the figures. "You now owe the company two Vanguard-brand alloy hoes and a sack of fertilizer. If the cotton yield falls short come harvest, we'll take it from your points. No slacking."
Flour and bottle clutched to his chest, Moses stepped out of the store.
Sunlight stung his eyes. Along the ridge, rifle-bearing guards rode patrol; farther off, the old slave shacks had been re-numbered as employee dormitories.
No whips. No overseers' curses.
Only the ledger.
A young black lad came up and hoisted the sack for him. "Grandpa, are we really free? Feels more like a cage than ever."
Moses looked at the few thin coupons left in his palm.
"This is the price of freedom, Toby." He sighed. In the office above the store Silas stood at the window, gazing down at the crowd.
Coffee in hand, he watched his deputy Borg strip the rifle that had done such good service.
"Boss, the folk look tame enough," Borg said. "Ever since we broke Red Horse's leg, the bush-whacker gangs have vanished—haven't seen a shadow for two days."
"Seeing nothing doesn't mean they're gone—stay sharp. And these people aren't tame; they're hungry." Silas sipped. "The Boss says hunger's the best discipline."
He gestured toward the store.
"See that clerk? Right now his pen's more useful than our guns. Control the flour and the medicine, and the blacks will hoe the fields without a fuss."
Just then a clamor rose from the warehouse.
"Hm? Let's take a look." Silas set down his cup.
They arrived to find field hands circling rows of silvery walking ploughs.
The shares looked far lighter than cast iron, each stamped with the words Lex Steel.
"What're these?"
A burly man lifted one, amazed at the weight.
"Hey… don't paw the goods, OK?" Silas ran a hand along the cold steel.
"They're a gift from the Boss to this land—special alloy. Won't clog, won't rust, sharp enough to slice roots."
"Your old iron beasts needed two mules; one can pull these."
He pointed to a mountain of grey sacks.
"Add Saineng Minerals' saltpetre. Follow the rules, and even this late in the season you'll save the cotton that would've gone to waste."
"Work hard and next year you'll clear the ledger and still have coin left for a drink."
The men exchanged glances, a spark in their eyes.
They didn't know that every extra pound the plough coaxed from the soil had already been tallied into rent and interest.
The steel share would cut more than earth.
It would sever the last tie to the old life where the master once fed them.
From this day they were no longer farmers.
They were cogs on the assembly line of industrial agriculture.
______________________________
Wow, this is the best way I can describe this chapter.
Alexa
Play - THE FINE PRINT by The Stupendium
Welcome to space.
What were you expecting?
It's a dangerous place.
Thank you for investing.
Go there for your rota, there for your orders
Fill up these quotas, we'll bill you for quarters
Report to your foreman but watch for marauders
'Cus If you get eaten there's fees for your mourners
Prosperity's there in the care of magnates
In Halcyon heaven awaits!
Did you think this was supposed to look like the posters
Well it mostly does, oh if you only read closer
Just ten short years to a new frontier
Snooze as you cruise and you'll wake up here!
You've been trapped in that ship for an awful long time
So perhaps you have simply forgot what you signed
Honestly? Did you not read the colony policy?
That defines you as company property?
That waivers your say in autonomy?
The conglomerate's got you in lock and key
We put the dollar back into idolatry
If you're upset you can rent an apology
We are a family forged in bureaucracy
No I in 'team' but there's con in 'economy'
Were you expecting adventure?
Were you hoping for fun?
My friend you're indentured
And pleasure's exempt from your tenure
So venture back down to your slum
That's provided at generous prices
Your worth is determined by your sacrifices
A small term of service when down on the surface
Internment's a freebie that comes with the purchase
We work. To earn the right to work.
To earn the right to work.
To earn the right to work.
To earn the right to work.
To earn the right to give
Ourselves the rights to buy
Ourselves the right to live
To earn the right to die.
Welcome to our little town! Why don't you settle down?
Here, just fill out the paperwork and you can look around
We're happy as can be inside the valley cannery
We live to pack the cans of meat and not to question where it's found
Until we end up in the ground around the corner in the yard
You know we thought we liked the sound of finding glory in the stars
The board has taught us to be proud of never reaching very far
So we earn what we're allowed and give it right back at the bar
The Ale to cure what ails ya'!
Zero-Gee Brew! Your favourite flavour!
So work til' you bleed – ennobled by labour
Then purchase relief from your local retailer
If you'd rather drop dead that's fine
But you know that dropping down dead bears a fine
So you do your job, I'll do mine
I gotta meet a six foot deep bottom line
We make a fortune for the board by selling boredom door to door
Because it's all that we deserve and it is all we can afford
The secrets of the universe and all the worlds to be explored
But our dreams are back on earth and now the work is our reward
And you'll be grateful for seats at the table
Though it dips at one end and the bench is unstable
You may waste your days but at least you were able
To pay off your grave since we leased you your cradle
Be faithful and pray we'll repay what you invest
Behave as you slave for humanity's interest
On account that you're all on account
and we're quickly amounting humanity's interest
You'd think that we'd sink to the brink of rebellion
With markets dependant on peddling weapons
The architect tells them the secret to heaven
Is simply consuming whatever we sell them
We work. To earn the right to work.
To earn the right to work.
To earn the right to work.
To earn the right to work.
To earn the right to give
Ourselves the rights to buy
Ourselves the right to live
To earn the right to die.
You should have read the fine print, my friend.
Should have read the fine print
You should have read the fine print, my friend.
Should have read the fine print
(Welcome to our little town! Why don't you settle down?
Here, just fill out the paperwork and you can look around
We work and then we work and then we work and then we work
And then we work and then we work and then we end up in the ground)
(WORK WORK HURRY HURRY
WORK WORK WORRY WORRY
WORK WORK HURRY HURRY
WORRY HURYY WORK WORK)
You should have read the fine print, my friend.
Should have read the fine print
You should have read the fine print, my friend.
Should have read the fine print
_________________________________________