Chapter 343 - My SI Stash #43 - The Rules of Acquisition by Digsjin (MassEffectXAltHistory)

-Another alt history SI fic with Mass Effect xover~ It's like that one time travel novel "Extraordinary Genius" but much better, and also less racist!

Synopsis: ???

Rated: M

Words: 15K

Posted on: forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/the-rules-of-acquisition-x-over-si.12460/ (Digsjin)

PS: If you're not able to copy/paste the link, you have everything in here to find it, by simply searching the author and the story title. It sucks that you can't copy links on mobile (´ー｀)

-I'll be putting the chapter ones of all the fanfics mentioned, to give you guys a sample if you wan't more please do go to the website and support the author! (And maybe even convince them to start uploading chapters in here as well!)

Chapter 1-3 (exceptional)

October 3rd, 1820 Pelham Manor, New York, United States of America

My father hummed, though whether in approval or only acknowledgment, I couldn't quite tell. Mother looked between the two of us nervously, understandable as things had been… shall we say, tense after our dispute which had ended with me unceremoniously being kicked out of the family manor at the tender age of 15 and having to find work as an English tutor for the children of a pair of German immigrants who could afford it. The fact that I held extremely radical ideas for the times when it came to politics and religion certainly didn't help matters either. Though when abolishing slavery and treating both Native and African Americans with basic dignity is considered radical, I didn't wish to be anything but.

Needless to say, my numerous disputes with both my immediate and extended family served to make me the proverbial Black Sheep of the Roosevelt Dynasty.

"It's well thought out." He begrudgingly allowed after giving my business plan a quick read-through.

I nodded my head in thanks. Even though I had more experience in more diverse and arguably much more complex businesses than him, the fact remained that I had zero familiarity with how to operate in a pre-digital and even pre-industrialized economy. So, any advice from a businessman as successful as Elbert Roosevelt would be welcome.

His eyes flicked back down to the dossier. Naturally, he immediately zeroed in on the amount of projected necessary starting capital and how I planned to allocate it. I say naturally because we were both smart enough to realize the only reason, I was here was to ask for the stated capital.

I took a sip of my, quite frankly delicious tea while he just looked pensive. Mother smiled nervously, and I returned it with a coy wink. It was nice to see she was doing well. My moving-out probably hit her the hardest as her children were the only things that really allowed her to bond with my father after what had primarily been a political marriage. Without my brothers and I, Pelham Manor must've felt quite empty.

Eventually, Elbert just sighed tiredly, "It's a lot of money, and I very much doubt your projected profits are accurate, given Napoleon's new home in the middle of nowhere." He said. It wasn't a flat-out no and given how much he probably disliked me on a personal level, it was better than what I was expecting.

"It's a lot of money that's necessary to get a factory up and running." I returned mildly, "Steel is always in demand, be it in war or peace, and given how much cheaper it can be made using the Roosevelt Process, the profits should be self-evident." Sorry Mr. Bessemer, but I need it much more than you do.

"Yes, the Roosevelt Process," he flipped through a few pages until he landed on the converter's diagram. His lips briefly quirked up in a smile at the name before he squashed it. "And you're sure it works?" He asked doubtfully, I couldn't blame him. What I had essentially handed him was the Netflix of the Steel Industry, while Blockbuster was still the norm.

"As sure as I am that the sky is blue," I answered, nodding firmly. "I haven't been idle these last few months. I made a small mock-up of a converter with a blacksmith friend of mine, and I see no reason it wouldn't work on a large scale. Hell, I even perfected it enough to add the refractory lining." Complete bullshit, though to be fair, I was proud of remembering Gilchrist and Thomas' addition to the process. How the hell my brain dredged that up, I'll never figure out.

He leaned forward, "Fine, it works. I'll take your word for that. What I really want to know is how you came up with it. I've never known you to have a major interest in the chemical sciences beyond brewing moonshine in the attic." Guilty as charged, though, I only sold it to the neighborhood teens and never drank myself.

His implied threat was perfectly clear if you're making it up or god forbid, stole this invention from someone…

"That's because I didn't come up with it myself." That I could see, threw both of them for a loop. "I found mention of a similar though much less efficient process that the Chinamen have been using since medieval times in a history book. I mentioned it off-hand to an ironworker I know, and he commented on how odd certain parts of the process were. One thing led to another and…" I shrugged, not bothering to finish the sentence.

Funny thing, it wasn't even a lie at all; I had read about the Bessemer Process in a book, and the Han did come up with a variant at some point in the eleventh century. The only part where I distorted the truth a bit was when I said I'd mentioned it off-hand.

The elder Roosevelt's face became impassive, though Mother looked proud if somewhat disbelieving that the Chinese were apparently more advanced than Europeans at any given point with things that weren't silk, tea, or porcelain.

"And I see you've already patented it," Father added quietly, more to himself than to any of us. Taking a look at the patent and pointedly recognizing that neither the handwriting nor the very full legalese it was written in was my own. "Care to tell me how you could afford a lawyer to assist you?"

Mother interjected before I could, "He didn't hire any lawyers, honey, he asked his friend Millard for help, right?"

I nodded with a smile. "Yes, Millard's now practicing law, and while not a patent attorney per se, he's very diligent and picked up on the minutia much faster than I thought he would, and he did it for free."

Father's face fell, "I see, so financing that Jay's further education did pay off then?" Jay is a derogatory word for 'country bumpkin,' which to be fair Millard Fillmore certainly was. But he was also diligent, brilliant, and the future president. Not that I could tell them that last part.

"He's my friend," I answered calmly though the forced smile on my face belied where this would be going if he chose to rehash that old argument again.

For a moment, no one spoke, and predictably I broke the awkward silence. I was never very patient even when I had the Internet distracting me, how patient do you think I am now?

"So?" I asked eagerly, downing the last of my tea.

Father stared at both me and my mother, Jane. His stare lingered on my mother for a bit before it fixed itself back on me. He sighed and said: "Listen, Clinton, I'm willing to give you the money. Hell, I don't even really want 5% of your company, just… We need to reconcile."

I blinked, honestly, I wasn't expecting that. When I was a kid, we had a pretty good if distant relationship. I was always well-behaved, not seeing the need to throw tantrums or do stupid shit that wouldn't avail me anything. Selling moonshine notwithstanding, though even then, I could tell my businessman of a father was somewhat proud of me in that incident and only punished me to prevent the other parents of upper-class children from getting angry at him.

No, our differences only really started when he deemed me mature enough to ask about my "budding" political opinions. I was an ardent abolitionist, he was apathetic to the plight of slaves at best, I was agnostic and only paid lip-service to the protestant church. At the same time, he was reasonably devout. I was a 21st-century libertarian, and he was a 19th century Democratic-Republican. All of that isn't even mentioning our respective stances on Napoleon, Simon Bolivar, Native Americans, and also shit like the Louisiana Purchase, which was no longer of immediate relevance.

My silence must've stretched out for far longer than I'd intended because when Mother gently put her hand on my elbow, I nearly jumped out of my chair in fright. She chuckled quietly. "Honey, please, we're family."

I slowly clasped her hand in mine.

"I think we two have irreconcilable differences," I answered, looking the man in the eye and didn't even flinch when my mother's hand tightened around mine. "However, I don't think we have to let our opinions define our relationship. I'm willing to let everything thus far be water under the bridge, so long as we can live and let live when it comes to politics."

Her grip slackened, and she looked happy, father smiled thinly and stretched out his hand. I just looked confused for a second before I grasped what he was doing and shook it firmly.

"I can live with that," Elbert said with a small smile, "I know I never said it before, but I am proud of you Clinton, both of us are. You became a man much sooner than I would've expected or liked, but we're your family, and we'll help whenever you need it."

I smiled at him for the first time in a long time and finished eating the small cookies that one of the servants had set up with the tea.

"Does that mean he can move back in with us?" She hesitantly asked Elbert, and he nodded firmly.

I shook my head, "I appreciate the offer, I really do. But the ironworks I'm buying is near the Upper Bay. The commute just isn't doable."

"But you'll still visit, right?"

I nodded, "As often as I can."

"Saturdays," My mom abruptly said.

"I'm sorry?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Every Saturday." She said firmly, I looked to my father for help, but his amused grin told me I wasn't getting any.

Let it never be said that Clinton Roosevelt didn't know when to pick his battles. I just hugged her and agreed, "Every Saturday then."

We talked about this and that for a bit. My father's business was apparently booming with peace in Europe. They were now importing luxury goods from the Americas like crazy, including the tobacco he had a hand in. I congratulated him on his turn of good fortune. I mentioned off-hand that Spain might be looking to make up a shortfall of certain luxury goods since most of their colonies were in revolt, and Bolivar was handing them their collective assess. He actually wrote the idea down. Huh.

He, in turn, asked me about my current job and living arrangements and looked scandalized when I told him I was living in what was mainly the ghetto with the poorer Dutch, Swiss and German immigrants. Though he was slightly mollified that my landlord was a decent sort that didn't overcharge people and actually provided the amenities I paid for to a satisfactory degree.

My mother talked about local politics. Being the daughter of a politician who sat in the state legislature for most of his life, she had quite the knack for it. However, the specifics mostly flew over both our heads as father and I were more nationally if not internationally-minded when it came to politics.

Eventually, though, he did ask a question that would be important to the future Roosevelt Steelworks, and it was a question I had to answer delicately lest it reignites our feud.

"I noticed that the money you assigned for wages was much lower than I would've expected, are those the usual wages of iron or steelworkers?"

"No," I answered, "You see the factory I'm purchasing is located near the tenements, so I plan to employ mostly Negros, since they work for half-wages and are used to more rigorous physical labor." A sad state of affairs honestly, but despite Henry Ford's appalling racism, he did set the precedent that eventually allowed for African Americans to enter the workplace as factory workers, which ultimately let them compete for equal wages.

I was just setting said precedent much earlier, and if I could help free blacks and newly escaped slaves get their footing in the North while turning a hefty profit then so much the better. I would've paid them fair wages, but then no White American would've ever accepted a job from me, and quite frankly, I still needed a reasonably sizeable skilled labor force for future projects.

"I see," father mumbled slowly, and mother had what could only be described as a pleading look on her face. "Are you sure it's a good idea?"

I made a so-so motion with my hand, "If it doesn't work out, I can always fire them."

He nodded hesitantly, "It's your prerogative. So, when do you think Roosevelt Steelworks will be up and running?" Now slightly more excited.

"Provided the blacksmiths I'll task with building the Converters are done on time? Should be operational within a month, though I still have to see about getting a reliable supplier of Pig Iron."

He hummed neutrally, "My advice is having a primary supplier, but have a backup that gets his stock from a different source. I can actually help you with this is I think, look up a man named Ethan Greene, I think his cousin runs an iron mine somewhere in Appalachia-"

I leaned back into the chair, listening to the advice. Overall today had been a pretty good day. I had come to ask for money in exchange for stock but instead reconciled with my parents, got the money without giving up the shares, and was now getting free advice from one of the savviest businessmen of the era. The expression 'I came looking for copper and found gold' comes to mind.

A/N: So, a while back I posted a story on my alternate-history account Elenoir, called Visions of a Steampunk Future, where I essentially wanted the SI to introduce Charles Babbage's Difference Engine along with other technology much earlier and see how things develop in a steampunk-ish way from there. Recently, however, I've had a change of heart about where I want the story to go, both in terms of what the character does and the story no longer being a purely historical one but rather also integrating certain sci-fi settings I really enjoy which will be listed in the tags (and of course I plan to put in some lewds). The first chapters will be mostly the same as those from the original story, though there will be a few minor divergences, for now, please enjoy the oncoming trainwreck of a ruthless businessman traipsing through the past.

Chapter 2

February 6th, 1821, Upper Bay, New York City, United States of America

Brigham made his way through the shoddily paved streets, finding his destination was proving to be a might more troublesome than he'd anticipated.

Though the 20-year-old had been born in Vermont. He'd also lived in New York for most of his life and had even moved around the state several times. Both under his own prerogative to find work and naturally under his father's, since the man could never hold a job for long. He'd been all over New York State but had never visited the City properly.

He'd seen no real need, not until now anyway.

A courier had arrived in Port Byron, surprisingly seeking him out specifically. He'd had no reason to refuse the courier's letter as he wasn't in any significant gambling debts or some such, but neither did he know anyone who'd want to send him a message. All of his siblings were much older than him, and relations between the Young family, in general, had been strained ever since his mother died of Consumption when he was 14.

No, at the time, he had thought it far more likely that Mr. Jeffries had sent him a letter, perhaps asking to have Brigham back as his apprentice. He was hard-working after all and by Mr. Jeffries' own admission a great help when it came to organizing the man's supplies. He would've taken the offer in a heartbeat. His life has lost all sense of direction after the 1819 Depression and the subsequent loss of his apprenticeship.

Instead, however, he was surprised to find enclosed a letter from a 'Clinton Roosevelt.' Who introduced himself as the owner and proprietor of several Steelworks in the Upper Bay Area of New York City and as a passing acquaintance of Mr. Jeffries.

His former instructor had apparently commented on Brigham's extraordinary talent for organization, something which, according to the Dutchman, was 'sorely needed after the company's expansion' and had therefore offered Brigham a job as a 'Foreman' should he want it. Ordinarily, he would've refused.

He was experienced in several vocations such as painting, carpentry, and glazing. But he knew nothing of the steel industry and did not wish to get the Dutchman's hopes up when he wasn't sure he'd be able to do an adequate job. So, he thought he would refuse.

That lasted up until he saw the proposed salary. He immediately packed his bags and made his way to the City, having borrowed any and every book he could from Port Byron's small library that dealt with Steelmaking and Factory Work.

Though the one thing he decried the man's letter for were the abysmal directions. The company's main Steelworks was apparently located near the tenements, the shoddy houses where the negros congregated. So, most of the streets did not have names, and it was difficult to provide precise directions.

A peculiar sense of smell suddenly invaded his nostrils, completely breaking Brigham out of his reverie. Eventually, he realized that the smell was that of burning coal, and as a man possessed, he immediately made towards it.

The first thing that greeted him was the large sign plastered on one side of the building, it had a large depiction of an Anvil with a flame burning on top of it that was itself within a gear. 'Roosevelt Steelworks' was proudly emblazoned on the top of the sign, in large, white blocky letters and the company's slogan in smaller yet no less noticeable red letters near its bottom. The latter read 'Building Tomorrow.'

Brigham thought it a might presumptuous, but decided he'd have to meet with Mr. Roosevelt himself before any opinions on the man or his company entrenched themselves. With a slight straightening of his posture, he made his way into the factory towards the man's office.

Only to stop dead in his tracks as his eyes widened to comical proportions at what he saw and heard within. Most of the workers were shirtless but were wearing some sort of cloth over their noses and mouth, presumably to not inhale the smoke.

They were shoveling coal under the beehive-looking furnaces while the molten steel flowed out to be molded into ingots, that were then carried away on carts by other more fully clothed workers. It was all done in an incredibly practiced and regimented manner, so much so that Brigham was legitimately impressed at sight.

His new prospective employer had also explained that his workforce was primarily made up of Negros and German Catholics. And had warned that any discrimination that was not based on how well the workers did their jobs would result in immediate termination of his employment.

Brigham was alright with this, though he did feel a tad uncomfortable among papists. The policy itself was sound and was even to be expected since, logically, it would promote workers to well… work harder regardless of other circ.u.mstances.

What Brigham had not expected was for everyone to be singing while working. Both Negros and Germans alike were singing what was probably a German drinking song going by the raucous lyrics, and if one paid close enough attention, were even working in tune with the song!

He shook his head at sight and stopped a negro with an upraised hand. "Excuse me, do you know where I can find Mr. Roosevelt?"

The man stopped and peered at him for a moment, though Brigham noticed he didn't meet his eyes. "You're not Mr. Fillmore." The man announced suspiciously.

Brigham shook his head, "No, I'm afraid not, my name is Brigham Young, your employer sent me a letter asking me to meet him here." He pulled out the letter as proof and was surprised when the Negro unfolded it and began to read, though he read slowly and had to sound-out each syllable it was still quite impressive.

He handed the letter back, not having read most of it but apparently still satisfied, saying. "Well, sir, it's a pleasure to welcome our new Foreman, Mr. Roosevelt's office is upstairs and to the right. Sorry for being rude, but nosy folk tends to bother the guys."

Brigham accepted the apology and muttered a quick thank you. Hastily making his way along the indicated direction. He was eventually arrived by a wooden door with a small metal plaque that read 'Clinton Roosevelt CEO.' He had no idea what a CEO was, but at least the names matched up.

He gave the door a few quick knocks and was rewarded by a "Come in!" that was only barely loud enough to be heard above the din of the factory.

He pushed open the door and was confronted by a young man, younger than he was at any rate with dark hair, a large frame, and bright blue eyes that strangely enough flashed in recognition.

"Ah, you must be Mr. Young," he said with a broad smile and shook his hand in a firm grip, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine, sir," Brigham returned slightly flummoxed at the man's friendly demeanor.

"Please, take a seat," he indicated the two chairs behind a large wooden desk, and only then, Brigham noticed another young man sitting on a leather couch at the corner of the office. He must've stared at him for longer than he'd intended as Mr. Roosevelt immediately slapped a palm on his forehead and affixed a sheepish expression on his face.

"Oh, how rude of me!", he exclaimed, "This is Mr. Filmore, he's my attorney. Don't worry, you'll be negotiating your employment contract with me, he's just here to make sure it is legally binding."

"Pleasure." The now named Mr. Filmore introduced himself with a terse nod as Brigham sat down on one of the chairs.

"Excuse me, Mr. Roosevelt, but before we get started, I had a question about how you run your Steelworks," Brigham said, legitimately curious.

Clinton raised an eyebrow, yet the smile vanished from his features. "Yes?"

"It's just… why do you let the workers sing, doesn't it distract them from doing their jobs?"

The smile returned, "So you'd think, right? But it turns out its quite the opposite. You see sailors sing Sea Shanties to get them focused when doing menial tasks. I asked a Navy friend of mine, and he commented that the time just seems to fly by while they sing. So, I tried it on the floor, and guess what?!" He asked rhetorically, though with enthusiasm Brigham couldn't help but share, "Productivity rose by 20%!"

"I see, that's incredible!" And it really was, for something as minor as singing to have such an effect. It was clear that despite reading up on the subject, he had so much to learn. "At any rate, Mr. Roosevelt, you mentioned in your letter that you'd like me to take charge of the company's logistics as well as be a foreman, but the specifics escape me I'm afraid. Could you elaborate?"

"Of course, but please call me Clinton or sir if you must be formal, my last name is a bit of a mouthful," He returned with a smile. "You see, we recently purchased a few other ironworks that went out of business in 1819, and we plan to convert them into more Steelworks in the coming months. We need a person who can organize the supplies between all four factories and do what I do here, which is to see to it that the workers arrive and leave on time and meet certain quotas. I'm a fairly good judge of character and think you'd be well-suited to the job, what do you say?"

Throat suddenly gone dry Brigham made his decision.

Chapter 3

July 10th, 1822, Mount Edgecomb Plantation, British Grenada

"Well now," the Grenadian drawled in a smug voice which his accent somehow managed to make even more grating, "seems even the high and mighty Roosevelt needs the help of us wicked plantation owners. The sugar can be shipped easily, but the oranges will spoil before they reach New York. If I have to get them there faster, it'll cost you double."

Gregor MacGregor grimaced yet nodded all the same. Truth be told, he was decidedly unhappy to be here, but if the money was enough, he'd suffer pretty much any indignity as his new employer had so eloquently pointed out.

Perhaps as a way to block out the Plantation Owner's voice, his mind automatically drifted to the circ.u.mstances that led to his renewed employment in the Americas. He had scarcely returned to his homeland after which his… financial troubles finally caught up with him. Seeing no other way to make that much money that quickly, he'd opted to take advantage of the general British ignorance of Latin America and pretended to be a delegate selling Bonds of a country that didn't actually exist.

It worked well enough at first, but it was a perilous endeavor should he be caught, or if God forbid some colonists wanted to visit the godforsaken jungle, where he claimed The Republic of Poyais was.

Therefore, when he received a letter from Clinton Roosevelt, a steel magnate whose name was becoming well-known across the Atlantic. A letter expressing both a desire to employ him and admiration for his deeds as an officer of the Venezuelan Army, the young scion of the Gregor Clan accepted immediately and boarded a ship bound for New York at the earliest opportunity.

Imagine his surprise when he arrived, and the first thing the young Roosevelt had congratulated him for was his, so far, successful scam. MacGregor had panicked and almost immediately made to run, but Clinton had reassured him that that was actually the reason he wanted to employ him. Stating that he needed a salesperson and someone with knowledge of Latin America to broker agreements for him.

Though what he actually said was more along the lines of, 'Anyone with the balls to look someone in the eye and sell them land in a country that doesn't exist is someone I want selling my product.'

Gregor was skeptical but decided to hear him out, and he was delighted he did. His contract came with no-fixed salary, but rather a percentage of the profit from every sale he negotiated as an incentive for him to give his employer the maximum profit possible.

So far, he'd successfully brokered agreements with several railroads, shipbuilding, and other assorted miscellaneous manufacturing companies all across the Northern United States. At Clinton's behest, he had even persuaded a young dutchman by the name of Cornelius Vanderbilt to create a joint enterprise alongside his employer by the name of V&R Shipping.

However, only now that Clinton had left most of the day-to-day operations of Roosevelt Steelworks under the purview of its new CEO, Brigham Young, was Gregor sent to South America. He appreciated the opportunity to catch up with some old war buddies in Gran Colombia, but why on Earth his employer wanted a steady supply of the foul-tasting Coca Leaves eluded him.

He wanted more things too, things that were most prominently and most cheaply grown in the American South.

Clinton, however, was staunchly against giving the South any business whatsoever. Therefore, MacGregor had to voyage all across the Caribbean, Mexico, and South America to find amenable Hacienda owners. As only they could supply such esoteric things as Cinnamon and Vanilla Oils to such everyday things like Coffee and Limes in the quantities Roosevelt wanted.

Whatever enterprise would require steady supplies of sugar, coca leaves, organic oils, acids, and various fruits, he had no idea. Still, looking at Roosevelt's track record so far, it was sure to be a profitable venture.

So, he straightened his posture and began negotiating. "The oranges can be spoiled so long as they are not fermenting, seeing as this would allow you to unload stock you couldn't otherwise sell, I propose a 20% Discount on both the Oranges and the Bitter Orange Oil as a show of good faith…"