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Martin Briggs flipped through the paperwork twice and felt the specific chill of a career bureaucrat who had just been handed a grenade with the pin half-pulled.
On paper, the registration was clean. Properly formatted, accurately detailed, compliant with standard small-business filing requirements. The issue was not the paperwork. The issue was what the paperwork was for.
New Future Technology Energy Co., Ltd.
The scope of operations described energy development and technology licensing. Harmless phrasing on its surface. But the descriptions in the attached prospectus — power generation, grid interface, large-scale electricity transmission — crossed directly into territory that was, by Valorian law, strictly reserved for the state.
Private citizens could not own power plants. They could not operate generation facilities. They could not sell electricity. Distribution was handled exclusively through public-private hybrid consortiums governed by federal oversight. Every person in Briggs's profession knew these rules by heart. They were written into the Commerce Bureau's operating manual in chapter one, paragraph one.
Briggs could not, under any reasonable interpretation of the law, approve this application.
He looked up at the teenager sitting across from him.
This was, of course, the same teenager who had built a fusion reactor in a rented warehouse. Who had personally held off a hostile foreign power. Who had a standing military detail. Who could, with a single phone call, generate the kind of political attention that demolished careers.
Briggs was a mid-level bureaucrat with two years until pension. He had read the room.
"Professor Mercer." He closed the folder carefully. "If I may ask an impertinent question."
"Of course."
"Are the appropriate authorities aware that this filing is coming in?"
Briggs chose his words with the care of a man walking a minefield.
"You understand, a private energy company of this scale is not… normally permissible. But I assume, given who you are, and the visibility of your recent work, and the kind of protection you travel with…"
He let the sentence hang.
Ethan blinked. Processed the subtext. It had not, genuinely, occurred to him that privately registering an energy company would require any special clearances. His mental model had been simpler: file papers, get stamp, go home.
"Director Briggs, I appreciate the caution. But I think the relevant ministries are tracking this. I can have someone call—"
His phone rang.
An unknown number. He frowned, accepted the call, and put it to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Am I speaking with Professor Ethan Mercer?"
The voice on the other end was crisp, middle-aged, and carried the specific energetic authority of someone accustomed to addressing rooms full of subordinates.
"Speaking."
"Professor Mercer. This is Director Xavier Holt from the National Energy Ministry."
Ethan's brain did a quick audit of the name, cross-referenced it against the Valorian government hierarchy, and concluded that he was currently on the phone with the cabinet-level official responsible for national energy policy.
"Director Holt. Pleasure to meet you."
"Please, call me Xavier. I read your proposal this morning. I also watched the deployment footage. I have a number of things to say, but the first one is this: that kid Graves didn't tell you I'd be calling, did he?"
"He did not."
"Of course he didn't. That man has the communication habits of a stone wall. I'm going to have words with him."
Ethan, who was now genuinely enjoying the conversation, allowed himself a grin.
"Director Holt, what can I do for you?"
"Several things. First, the project you're proposing — the ten-reactor seabed grid — is being escalated to the highest priority tier. The Chancellor is personally invested. I received a call from her office at six this morning. You've set off more alarms than the Aurelian thing, and I would not have thought that possible."
"I tend to have that effect."
"You tend to have that effect. Yes." Xavier paused. "Second matter. The state wishes to acquire a stake in your company."
Ethan's grin faded slightly.
He was not surprised, exactly. He'd known the moment he proposed replacing the West-East Power Corridor that the government would want a seat at the table. What concerned him was the size of the seat. His entire reason for founding the company had been to secure a private, controlled environment where he could continue his research without oversight committees breathing down his neck. If the state took majority ownership, the company became a state enterprise in everything but name, and his research autonomy went with it.
"Director Holt. Before we go further. Is the government proposing a majority stake? Is this a nationalization?"
A pause. Then, to Ethan's relief, a genuine laugh.
"Kid, relax. Minority stake. Twelve percent, maybe fifteen. Non-controlling. Non-operational. No board seats with management veto."
"Then what's the purpose?"
"Protection."
"Explain."
"Professor Mercer, you are about to found the most valuable energy company on the planet. The moment your incorporation papers are public, every foreign intelligence service in the world will send operatives to infiltrate your organization. They will try to hire your scientists, compromise your engineers, seduce your administrators, and bribe your maintenance staff. Your company cannot defend itself against that kind of threat. Not on its own."
Xavier's voice sharpened.
"With state equity, we have standing. We can deploy Bureau personnel as legal counterintelligence. We can vet applicants through channels you don't have access to. We can dismantle infiltration attempts before they reach you, through legitimate, documented authority. Without state equity, we can't do any of that officially. And doing it unofficially, in case you have missed the subtext, is how countries wind up in international incidents."
Ethan absorbed this.
It was, honestly, a strong argument. And the Aurelian assassination attempt at the Bumblebee press conference was fresh in everyone's memory. Kane's operatives had reached him in the middle of his own country, on live television. The next attempt would be smarter. Having the Bureau positioned as a full legal partner in the company was not a bad hedge.
"Minority stake. No operational control. No research oversight."
"Correct."
"And the capital injection?"
"We're not taking equity for free, Professor Mercer. You will receive a capital contribution commensurate with our percentage. The specific number is still under discussion at the Finance Ministry, but to give you a rough order of magnitude…"
Xavier paused for effect.
"…we are in the ten-figure range."
Across the desk, Martin Briggs's thermos slipped out of his hand.
It hit the carpet with a muffled thunk, bounced once, and rolled under a bookshelf. Tea spread across the floor in a slow, dark circle.
Martin Briggs did not move. He did not react. His face had taken on the specific, frozen stillness of a man whose brain had just attempted to process more information than its architecture supported and had, as a defensive measure, temporarily powered down.
Ten digits.
The state was going to invest ten-digits into a private energy company founded by a teenager.
The teenager sitting across from his desk. Right now. In his office.
Martin Briggs had worked in the Ashford City Commerce Bureau for eighteen years. He had processed corporate registrations for every major business in the region. He had handled the incorporation paperwork for Valorian subsidiaries of international conglomerates. He had signed off on real estate developments worth hundreds of millions of marks.
None of those filings had ever involved a ten-figure state capital injection.
Because ten-figure state capital injections did not happen at the municipal Commerce Bureau level. They happened at the Chancellor's office. Under armed guard. With three teams of lawyers present.
Ethan wrapped up the call, thanked Director Holt, and hung up.
He turned his attention back to Briggs and found the Director of the Ashford City Commerce Bureau staring at the wet circle spreading across his office carpet with the flat, distant expression of a man considering whether to attend his own funeral in person or send a deputy.
"Director Briggs?"
"Hm."
"Your thermos."
"Hm."
"Director Briggs, are you okay?"
Briggs blinked. Focused. Returned, gradually, to the present moment.
"Professor Mercer."
"Yes, sir."
"Would you… excuse me for one moment?"
He reached into his desk drawer, produced a small towel, and began methodically cleaning up the spilled tea. The motions were precise, unhurried. They were also the motions of a man who was using physical activity to re-anchor himself in reality.
"Professor Mercer. Forgive me. It has been a long morning."
"Take your time, Director."
While Briggs cleaned, Ethan's phone vibrated again. He pulled it out to check, and in the process, his contacts list briefly opened on screen.
Briggs, who had just straightened up from retrieving the thermos, happened to glance in Ethan's direction at exactly that moment.
His eyes tracked across the phone screen.
His eyes stopped.
His eyes widened.
Nathan Graves.
Xavier Holt.
Edmund Hargrove.
Victor Hale.
Briggs's brain, which had just finished rebooting, crashed a second time.
Those four names, scrolling casually down a contact list, represented approximately the entire top tier of Valorian national security, energy policy, scientific establishment, and provincial military command. They were names that appeared in newspapers. Names that appeared in classified briefings. Names that appeared, occasionally, on legislation.
And they were saved in this teenager's phone without so much as a professional title. Just names. Like friends. Like they called each other for lunch.
Briggs inhaled very slowly through his nose.
If this phone were ever listed for sale at public auction, he thought with faint hysteria, the resulting bidding war would get people killed.
Ethan, oblivious, pocketed his phone.
"Director Briggs, I apologize for the chaos. Now that I understand the state is supporting this filing at the ministerial level, I'd be happy to come back later this week with additional documentation—"
"No no no."
Briggs waved both hands, the way a man might wave off a falling piano.
"No need. Absolutely no need. The documentation you've already provided is complete and sufficient. If the Chancellor's office is aware of this filing and the Energy Ministry is supporting it, there is no reason for it to be delayed at this bureau."
He straightened his tie. He composed his face. He walked around his desk to the intercom on the wall and pressed the call button.
"Margaret. Please bring me the bureau seal. Personally. And bring the priority approval stamp."
There was a pause on the other end.
"Both of them, Director?"
"Both of them."
"Sir, the priority approval stamp hasn't been used in six years."
"Today is the day, Margaret. Bring them both."
He released the intercom, turned to Ethan, and allowed himself a small, practiced smile.
"Professor Mercer. It has been my profound honor to process this filing personally. You will have your certification within the hour."
Ethan, trying not to smile, gave a polite nod.
"Thank you, Director Briggs. I appreciate the efficiency."
Outside, in the hallway, there was the rapid sound of Margaret running.
Martin Briggs sat down at his desk, folded his hands, and contemplated the fact that he had, in the last forty-five minutes, come closer to losing his career than he had in the previous eighteen years combined.
He was going to need a very long weekend.