Location: Director's office (The « Bunker », Level 4), Volta SA factory, Ivry-sur-Seine.
Date: Second week of January 1996.
Viewpoint: Internal (Lazare Bonaparte).
The clinical silence of Level 4 had reasserted itself. The winter truce, that strange organic anomaly granted for Victor's wedding, had closed like a parenthesis. The armor of the Ogre of Ivry, once laid bare on the steps of a Parisian church, had just welded itself back onto his shoulders with the coldness of a titanium alloy.
The Builder was back in his sanctuary, and 1996 was shaping up to be the year of his final crushing defeat.
In this second week of January, the Parisian sky unleashed an icy rain that streamed down the immense bay windows of the director's office. But Lazare Bonaparte looked neither at the city, nor at the control monitors where the assembly lines of the new VESLA-III 2390 processor scrolled by .
His entire attention was captivated by an object placed in the center of his substantial Macassar mahogany desk.
It wasn't a silicon wafer with iridescent reflections. It wasn't the prototype of the SONG-IV chip or a CELLA-M2 memory module . It was a brushed aluminum briefcase, unusually thick, secured by two biometric locks and an untamper-proof lead seal.
On the matte metal, a familiar emblem was engraved: that of the Bank of France, flanked by the nascent symbol of the future European Central Bank. The object had been transported an hour earlier by an armored convoy of the national gendarmerie, under the personal escort of Commandant Vauquelin, directly from the ultra-secure printing works in Chamalières.
Lazare snapped the lead seal open with a swift movement. He placed his thumbs on the biometric readers. A double click released the latches, and the lid lifted with a slight hiss of depressurization.
He stepped forward.
Inside, nestled in blocks of high-density foam, lay the foundations of the new world.
Bundles of banknotes, pastel-colored, on crisp cotton paper, smelling of fresh ink and security polymers. And next to them, bagged in rolls of clear plastic, cylinders of minted coins. A dense, cold, bimetallic alloy.
The Euro.
Lazare plunged his pale hand into the briefcase. He pulled out a hefty, two-toned two-euro coin and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. The contact of the striated metal on his skin produced a metaphysical shiver that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.
The Euro was no longer a mere abstraction. It was no longer simply a line of code displayed on the terminals of the Frankfurt Stock Exchange or in the accounting ledgers of Édouard Renault-Tessier. It had just taken on a tangible form.
It had acquired a mass, a texture, a smell. The single continental currency, which the official history of its former life had only painfully brought into being in 2002, had just been physically born six years ahead of schedule.
The young CEO let out a short laugh, a gravelly breath devoid of warmth.
This coin did not bear the Volta SA logo. It featured the classic symbols of the Republic: the Sower and the Tree of Life. But Lazare knew perfectly well that without the cyberwar he had launched, without the humiliation of the American intelligence agencies and the blackmail he imposed on Chancellor Kohl and François Mitterrand, this alloy would never have seen the light of day so quickly.
The lightning-fast acceleration of the European political calendar was merely collateral damage from his thirst for self-sufficiency. By forcing the continent to unite against Washington's predatory practices and Silicon Valley's embargoes, Lazarus had imposed the necessity of a strong, immediate currency, free from the Dollar's control.
And above all, he had secured its entire nervous system: every electronic transaction accompanying the circulation of these banknotes and coins would be encrypted by Volta's asymmetric CENTURION algorithm , silently levying its fee at every checkout.
Lazarus placed the coin back on the mahogany desk, next to the stacks of pristine bills. America had just lost its exorbitant privilege. King Dollar now had a physical competitor poised to flood the pockets of three hundred million citizens.
The dull thud of metal against wood was immediately followed by the pneumatic hiss of the office door.
Lazarus looked up.
Édouard Renault-Tessier, the Empire's chief financial officer, entered. The former investment banker was not alone. He was closely followed by two senior auditors from his department, young guns in sharp suits who carried the tension of those who had spent weeks manipulating financial antimatter.
Their arrival signified the definitive end of geopolitical considerations.
Édouard didn't even glance at the Bank of France briefcase. Physical money had become, for him, a quaint relic. His reality was measured in algorithmic flows and asset valuations.
He walked over to the long, frosted-glass conference table and, with an almost unsettling reverence, placed on it a formidably thick ledger bound in black leather.
The general ledger of consolidated accounts.
« The truce is over, Lazare, » announced the finance director, his voice trembling with a solemnity he usually reserved for wartime. « The administrative department has centralized the closing. The independent auditors have signed under the seal of state secrecy.
The results of our British subsidiaries, our factories in China, our foundry in Alsace, and our accommodation facilities have all been submitted. »
Lazare Bonaparte moved away from the desk and approached the meeting table. He buttoned the lapel of his double-breasted suit, his obsidian eyes fixed on the massive, closed ledger.
« Wall Street hasn't slept a wink since December, » continued Édouard, placing his hands flat on the leather of the document. « American speculators and City of London investment funds are fighting to guess the true depth of our cash reserves.
They're trying to estimate the damage inflicted on Intel and the profits from our massive launches in Asia. »
The financier gave a faint smile, a predator's grin that finally acknowledged the overwhelming power of his own machine.
« The time has come to perform the autopsy, Mr. President. Time to weigh the Leviathan.
And I can already assure you of one thing: the hysteria of the Wall Street analysts was not a speculative bubble. They were frighteningly close to the truth. »
Location: Council Room, Level 4, Volta SA Factory (Ivry-sur-Seine).
Date: Second week of January 1996.
Point of view: Omniscient (Sliding focus on Édouard Renault-Tessier and Lazare Bonaparte).
The thick black leather ledger rested in the center of the Macassar mahogany table. Édouard Renault-Tessier, the financial director of the Volta Empire, placed both hands flat on the cover, as if he were trying to physically contain its explosive energy.
Around the table, the vice presidents and division directors, including Karim Belkacem and René Castella, waited in reverent silence. At the far end of the room, Lazare Bonaparte continued to mechanically roll the solid two-euro coin between his fingers.
The cold, steady metallic clink of the alloy against his signet ring was the only sound that disturbed the air-conditioned tranquility of Level 4.
« The year 1995 has come to an end, » began Édouard, his voice resonating with the authority of a great chancellor. « And with it, the era of our financial discretion. The Wall Street business press, from the Financial Times to the Wall Street Journal , spent the last weeks of December whipping the markets into a frenzy.
Analysts, based on our sales volumes in Asia and the supremacy of the VESLA-III architecture , published reports estimating Volta SA's theoretical valuation at one hundred and twenty billion euros. »
A murmur rippled through the room. One hundred and twenty billion. It was an unreal, abstract figure, a mass of capitalization that defied comprehension for a company that was not even ten years old and that stubbornly refused any IPO.
« American columnists are crying 'speculative bubble,' » continued Édouard with a sharp smile. « They claim that such a valuation is a mathematical aberration, a collective hallucination caused by our lack of transparency. »
The financier sat up, grabbed the projector's remote control, and activated the beam. The huge white screen unfurled on the back wall lit up, projecting a complex equation in green letters on a black background.
$$V_0 = \sum_{t=1}^{n} \frac{FCF_t}{(1 + WACC)^t} + \frac{TV}{(1 + WACC)^n}$$
discounted cash flow (DCF) method ," explained the former investment banker, pointing his red laser at the variables. « It's the most clinical tool for assessing a company's intrinsic value. Wall Street thinks we've inflated our future cash flow projections ($FCF_t$) and minimized our weighted average cost of capital ($WACC$). »
Edward lowered his laser and looked at the assembly.
« I spent the month of December auditing all of our subsidiaries, offshore accounts, and royalties with our certified accounting firms. The truth, gentlemen, is that the American analysts are seriously mistaken. »
He clicked on his remote control. The final number appeared on the screen in large characters.
« One hundred and twenty billion euros is not a speculative bubble. It is a conservative estimate. »
Silence fell completely. Lazarus stopped spinning the coin and pressed it against the wooden desk. The sharp click sealed the sentence.
« Let's examine the inner workings of this Leviathan, » Edward ordered, the adrenaline of financial omnipotence coursing through his veins. « We are no longer simply a processor designer.
We are an industrial octopus whose tentacles encircle the very arteries of global technological capitalism. »
The slide changed, displaying a sprawling map of the group's assets.
« First pillar, the original matrix: our subsidiaries under total control, » Edouard enumerated. « Take ASML in the Netherlands.
We took control of that company behind the scenes. Today, they hold an absolute monopoly on deep ultraviolet (DUV) photolithography machines. Intel, Motorola, Samsung… all our competitors are forced to buy these machines if they hope to etch their own chips.
We take a huge margin on the very tool that allows our enemies to survive. »
The red beam slid towards Great Britain.
« Next, ARM in Cambridge. Fully acquired. While the world's attention is focused on our VESLA desktop processors , the ultra-low-power ARM architecture is becoming the absolute standard for future mobile telephony and embedded systems.
We hold the source code for 21st-century mobility. Add to that Helios-Cinema , which now equips Hollywood studios with digital capture equipment and 3D rendering farms. »
Édouard switched screens, displaying an avalanche of figures concerning the company's annuities.
« Second pillar: Royalties. Money flowing in without our factories having to break a sweat. Sony 's global launch of the PlayStation console was a cultural cataclysm.
And the graphics chip that powers it, the SONG-III , belongs to us. Twelve percent royalties on every console sold worldwide, and on every third-party game license. Japanese gold floods our clearing accounts in Luxembourg. »
The financier turned to Karim Belkacem.
« Not to mention our poisoned alliance with AMD . Jerry Sanders pays us exorbitant licensing fees to use the core architecture of the VESLA 2000. They use it to wage a war of attrition against Intel on American soil, and we reap the rewards of their own carnage.
And finally, direct sales with Compaq . Millions of AXIOM PCs equipped with the VESLA 2150 SX flooded Europe and emerging markets, with an operating margin of nearly eighty percent thanks to the Silicon Binning at our MegaFab. »
Lazarus watched the demonstration with a detached, almost hieratic detachment. The empire was chillingly perfect. But the engineer knew that finance only told half the story.
The other half lay in the ether.
« And the network, Edward? » asked Lazarus's deep, gravelly voice. « The tax on the flow. »
« An absolute gem, Mr. President, » smiled Édouard, displaying the Volta Broadcasting logo . « Xavier Niel has deployed his ADSL boxes in every French telephone exchange, and European expansion has begun.
We take our cut: a one percent monthly fee on every broadband subscription, in perpetuity. We are monetizing the continent's digital lifeblood. »
The revenue figures were staggering. Volta SA was no longer a company; it was a macroeconomic black hole sucking up the added value of the entire planet.
But suddenly, Édouard Renault-Tessier's expression darkened. The victor's mask slipped, revealing the austere rigor of an accountant tasked with footing the bill for his boss's hubris. He closed the revenue slides to open the liabilities.
Red ink flooded the screen.
« All of this, gentlemen, is just window dressing. The justification for the 120 billion valuation, » warned Édouard, leaning heavily on the table. « But a Leviathan of this size possesses an overwhelming organic mass.
Its inertia is terrifying. 1995 was the year of the completion of a project that drained our coffers dry. »
He spoke directly to Lazare and Karim.
ASTROLABE project . The satellite constellation.
A 3D model of the Earth, surrounded by a mesh of low-orbit satellites, appeared.
« You demanded complete space independence to allow us to compete with the American GPS constellation and safeguard our data streams, » the former banker reminded them. « The thirty microsatellites, equipped with our radiation-hardened VESLA chips , have been manufactured.
The agreement with Arianespace cost us a fortune in multiple launches from Kourou throughout 1995. Deployment is nearing completion. We have our own orbital telecommunications and geolocation network.
But the final bill, including the ground segment and insurance, has exceeded 2.5 billion euros. It's a bottomless pit of capital expenditure ( CapEx ). »
Édouard let the figure sink in before delivering the final blow. The real threat to Volta came neither from space nor from Silicon Valley. It came from within.
« But space is nothing compared to our biggest challenge right now, » the finance director asserted. « Managing our organic mass. »
He clicked on his remote control. A human organizational chart, bewilderingly complex, covered the wall.
« In 1987, we were a handful of people in a Parisian cellar. Today, in January 1996, Volta SA and its direct subsidiaries employ exactly 154,320 people worldwide. »
A shiver ran through the Council chamber. More than one hundred and fifty thousand souls depended directly on the decisions made in this room.
« We have a larger army than many sovereign nations, » Edward observed, his voice weighted with purely administrative anxiety. « And this army costs an astronomical fortune in fixed expenses.
Payroll has become a daily nightmare. The Human Resources department alone employs over a thousand people just to ensure that salaries are paid at the end of the month. »
The financier pointed out the different geographical hubs.
« The legal and fiscal complexity is stifling. Take our flagship project, the MegaFab in Alsace. Eight thousand engineers and technicians.
But they are subject to the local labor law of Alsace-Moselle, with its specific provisions regarding social security and public holidays. Add to that French employer contributions, payments to the URSSAF (the French social security collection agency)...
The French state protects us with its » Secret-Defense « decrees , certainly, but it burdens us with taxes. We are the largest private taxpayer in the Republic. We pay for our geopolitical umbrella, and the price is exorbitant. »
Édouard scanned the screen with his laser.
« In Paris, in what the press now calls the » Silicon Seine, « we have our armadas of software developers. Thousands of overpaid, capricious brains, demanding performance bonuses and insane perks to avoid succumbing to the allure of American recruiters. »
Then, the red dot moved eastward, settling over Asia.
Huabei foundry in China. Ninety thousand workers. Ninety thousand, Lazarus!
They work in three shifts to assemble the server chassis and AXIOM cases . The logistics of feeding them, housing them in dormitory towns we had to build ourselves, managing relations with the political commissars of the Chinese Communist Party, the bribes to pay provincial governors to guarantee the smooth flow of our copper and plastic supply chains...
It's a bottomless pit.
The finance director slammed his sturdy black ledger shut, the dull thud echoing like a warning shot in the room.
« Our revenue is colossal. Our gross margins on the VESLA 2190 or PlayStation royalties are obscene. But our operating expenses ( OpEx ), our payroll, our taxes, and our space investments are equally excessive. »
Édouard stopped, wiping the sweat that beaded on his forehead. He stared at Lazare Bonaparte.
« The net profit for the 1995 financial year, after deducting all these expenses, taxes, and depreciation, amounts to 4.2 billion euros. It's a tidal wave of liquidity, Lazare. A mountain of cash added to our existing reserves.
But it's nothing compared to the sheer size of the monster you've created. Volta SA is no longer an agile company. It's a supertanker.
If it stops, if it slows down for even a moment, the weight of its 150,000 employees and its factories will sink it. We are condemned to perpetual forward momentum. »
Silence fell once more on Level 4. The dizzying sheer number of figures had pinned the directors to their seats. They were running a state within a state, a nation without physical territory, subject to economic laws of extreme brutality.
Lazare Bonaparte, who hadn't flinched during the entire financial autopsy, slipped the two-euro coin into his waistcoat pocket. He rose slowly.
His face, stripped of the normalcy he had imposed upon himself at his brother's wedding a few days earlier, had regained Lazarus's mineral hardness.
« Heaviness is not a weakness, Edward. It is a force of inertia, » Lazarus declared in a low voice, resonating with icy authority.
« This supertanker, as you call it, now possesses enough critical mass to crush any reef that might stand in its way. »
He approached the table, placing his hands flat on the frosted glass.
« This 4.2 billion Euro net profit will not be used to pay dividends. It will not be used to enrich non-existent shareholders. This windfall will be immediately reinvested in the business. »
Lazarus's dark gaze swept over the assembly, locking the soul of every man present in the room.
« The year 1996 is merely a prelude. The goal is no longer to compete with America. The goal is to prepare for the transition to the year 2000.
I want VESLA-IV to be on the test benches before autumn. I want VoltaOS to become the exclusive central nervous system of the ASTROLABE constellation . The machine is complex, gentlemen, that's a fact.
But it is sovereign. And as long as I breathe, no one but us will dictate the pace of this world. The meeting is adjourned. »