Location: Boardroom, top floor of the Volta S.A. Factory, Ivry-sur-Seine
Date: February 1991
Point of View: Omniscient (Focus on the inner circle)
The large boardroom of Volta S.A., located on the top floor of the Ivry complex, was plunged into darkness. Only the dull hum of the overhead projector broke the absolute silence reigning around the long, solid walnut table.
On the white screen, a simple bar graph was displayed, flanked by a series of numbers—figures so long and astronomical that they seemed unreal.
At the far end of the table, the company's chief financial officer, an ordinarily stoic man poached from a major investment bank, spoke with a voice that trembled slightly as he adjusted his glasses.
"Gentlemen," he announced, putting down his laser pointer, "the chartered accountants have finalized the consolidation of our balance sheets for the 1990 financial year. I'll cut to the chase. The results are not just exceptional. They are historic."
Around the table, the inner circle of power listened attentively. There was Auguste Bonaparte, the former DST spy; Alexandre de Vigan, the brilliant and icy marketing director; and Karim, the former Parisian street kid and coding genius, slumped in his leather armchair with a casualness that failed to mask his astonishment.
And at the center of it all was Lazare Bonaparte. His gaze was dark and impenetrable, his hands clasped beneath his chin.
"Global sales of the Compaq Volta V-1 tower have shattered our most optimistic forecasts," the CFO continued. "We have captured nearly forty percent of the high-end professional market in the United States, and sixty percent in Europe. Intel was forced to sell off its 486 processors to clear its stock, drying up its own margins. Our hybrid business model—direct sales of chips to Compaq and a ten percent royalty on each variant produced by AMD—generated a net cash flow of 3.7 billion francs."
A hiss of admiration escaped Karim's lips. Three billion seven hundred million. In pure profit.
"But that's not all," the financier added, pressing the remote control to move to the next slide. "The real tidal wave did not come from the West. It came from the East."
On the screen appeared the red, yellow, green, and blue PlayStation logo, flanked by Sony's.
In this timeline, Lazare had short-circuited video game history by providing Sony with a modified, super-powerful RISC Volta architecture years ahead of schedule. The Japanese console had been released for the 1990 holiday season.
"The PlayStation 1 sold eight million units worldwide between November and January," the CFO announced, almost out of breath from his own words. "It literally obliterated Sega and Nintendo. Demand is so strong that Sony has had to charter entire Boeing 747 freighters to resupply the United States from Tokyo."
He pointed to a small line at the bottom of the chart.
"And as you negotiated, Mr. President, Volta S.A. is not just selling the console's processor. We receive a royalty on each console sold, as well as a percentage of every video game published for the platform. It's a continuous river of money. Global income. Entertainment revenue has doubled our annual profit."
The CFO turned off the overhead projector. The neon lights slowly flickered back on, dazzling the faces around the table.
"In summary," he concluded, closing his file, "on December 31, 1990, Volta S.A. possessed a cash reserve of more than eight billion francs. We have no debt. We are no longer just a technology company, gentlemen. In terms of immediate investment capacity, we carry more weight than some sovereign states."
A cathedral-like silence fell over the room. Lazare nodded slowly.
"Thank you, Benoît. Leave us."
The CFO bowed respectfully and left the room, closing the heavy, soundproof door behind him.
As soon as the lock clicked, the strict atmosphere of a board of directors' meeting vanished. It was time for the inner circle. The time of the pack.
Karim jumped to his feet, grabbed a calculator from the table, and began frantically tapping the keys. His eyes widened. The young hacker from the suburbs, who only a few years earlier had stolen components from Montgallet just to survive, looked at Lazare with a mixture of terror and absolute euphoria.
"Lazare—" Karim stammered, his voice breaking. "Do you realize what this means? You gave me three percent of Volta's capital when we founded it. Three fucking percent. If we distribute even a quarter of the dividends... I... I'm a billionaire!"
Karim took his head in his hands, letting out a nervous, incredulous laugh. He was sitting on a colossal fortune. Money, which had always been a daily matter of survival, had just turned into an abstract concept.
Alexandre de Vigan, usually a master of self-control, allowed himself to loosen the knot of his silk tie ever so slightly. He also owned shares in the company. As a brand strategist and chief marketing officer, he understood better than anyone what those numbers represented.
"This goes beyond financial wealth," de Vigan murmured, his eyes shining with cold exaltation. "It is absolute power. With reserves like this, Lazare, we no longer need to convince the banks. We can buy our competitors, buy up entire silicon mines, and bribe governments that might try to rein us in with antitrust laws. We are untouchable."
Auguste Bonaparte, seated at Lazare's right hand, observed the scene in silence. The former head of the DST's anti-terrorist cell couldn't care less about billions. He was not interested in his personal bank account. What he was looking at was his son.
This twenty-four-year-old young man had just brought American industry to its knees in less than thirty months. Auguste felt an immense, burning paternal pride. Lazare had not only saved France from technological vassalization; he had rewarded all those who had trusted him, turning outcasts, hackers, and loyalists into kings of the New World.
Lazare remained perfectly motionless in his chair. He let the euphoria fill the room, watching the reactions of his followers with the cold benevolence of a general watching his troops celebrate a victorious battle.
Then, he placed his hands flat on the table. The gesture alone was enough to silence Karim's laughter and draw de Vigan's attention back.
"Enjoy this moment, gentlemen," the Builder said, his calm voice cutting through the general intoxication. "Enjoy it, because you've earned it. But do not be fooled."
He scanned the room with a dark look, heavy with the weight of the coming decades that only he knew.
"These billions of francs are not a finish line. They are not trophies. They are ammunition."
Lazare stood up and walked toward the bay window, turning his back to the table of profits.
"The year 1990 was nothing but a war of position. We secured our supply lines and filled our coffers. But the year 1991 will be a war of annihilation. The money we have just raised will be used to finance the production of the Nomad, the global deployment of our telecommunications networks, and the definitive death of the Silicon Valley model."
He turned back to his inner circle, a flash of demiurgic ambition in his eyes.
"Rest tonight. Buy houses, sports cars, celebrate. Because tomorrow, we go back to the front. The world is not yet ours. And I do not intend to stop until I own it entirely."