NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC A rehash of the post made earlier, moved here for convenience.

IC
Cigar smoke choked the sprawling study behind the main façade of the Ibblesguarder Mercantile Bank, the premier foreign exchange and holdings for the Waldenburg Empire and it’s ventures overseas. The Emperor, who personally knew many of the men did not smoke, had wandered into the room some time ago to hear out this plan. Bankers kept up appearances, and though the style was at least a hundred years out of date, waistcoats and fob chains lay heavily upon ample chests.

A conversation had been going on for sometime but even so the Emperor had been tuning it out, there was nothing his disliked more than interrupting workmen extolling their craft so he sat demurely in the large armchair twirling a pen distractedly. Finally a set of two mahogany doors gently slid open to allow the President of the bank, Thorad Stevenson to slip in.

“I apologize,” he moved as if her were a galleon under full sail, his tailcoat floating gently behind him and his massive frame delicately maneuvering himself through an array of armchairs and coffee tables. “About my lateness,” he slide behind a monster of a desk at the rear of the room, “The old jar of pennies again I’m afraid.” There was a polite chuckle of laughter before all eyes in the room darted to the Emperor and mouths closed as one.

“It is quite alright,” Wyatt von Waldenburg finally breathed out as a window was opened across the room, he himself was not a smoker and had been attempting, over the last few hours to breath as little as possible. “We all have matters to attend to, and now that you have accomplish yours perhaps you will attend to mine?”

“Naturally.”

“Excellent; I want Vetalia bankrupted in a week.”

There was silence around the room as several of the men, attempted to fit all their shock onto only one face. “Are you quite sure you have that right Your Majesty?”

“Yes, I think so. Bankrupted is not actually compulsory however; I would accept a worthless Ruble.”

Thorad leaned back in his leather chair that was as institutional as the desk or bank itself and attempted to frame the sentence. “Vetalia is,” he waved one pudgy hand about in the air which tried, and succeeded, to encompass the difference between the stream line almost in assayable walls that were Vetalian economics and the awkward Waldenburger giant so reliant on heavy industry and the exploitation of minerals. “What we call very large, in the banking industry, and I’m afraid directly tied to the well being of the regional economics and indeed the worlds. A bankrupt Vetalia is something we do not want in fact, even if they are our enemies.”

“But am I correct in believing that such an upheaval will do us comparatively little damage?”

“In comparison to whom? To the panicking banking houses of the Confederacy? No in comparison to them we will be relatively unharmed, if necessary we have the mineral wealth, if only in potential, to support our currency, however such a change is most definitely not in our favor. Should the Vetalian, and her subsequent economic subsidiaries collapse, there would be a panic, the Ruble backs more than a dozen currencies worldwide and God knows what will happen should mass inflation strike these other nations. At any rate I do not see how it can be done.”

“At the present time,” the Emperor had spent some time studying the situation and even longer studying people, and he could see a few ideas striking some of the merchant bankers. “We have yet to issue and ultimatum, or indeed a statement to the Vetalian government on the recent annexations of Pasingrad for one; and I have every intention not to make one, we must assume that the Vetalians have thrown their lots with the LION, and they will not be given a change for remittance. As of now our eyes are elsewhere, around Greston, in Leistung, and on more disturbing rumors. Their borders are still open, their banks still taking our money and still presenting interest.”

“And? There is no change, that is what you wished to tell us?”

The Emperor held up a hand; he had learned some time ago that no leader could afford to be a despot for very long in the modern world, but even he had his limits, “Indeed no. There is now a war on, certain economic factors must be considered, and undoubtedly the price of oil has risen in the VCSE?”

“Naturally, the military will undoubtedly buy up some large quantities for any potential movements however in considered production levels this should not spike prices more than ten percent, we could make a decent profit I suppose, if there is a blockade, even more; this will not bankrupt them.”

“Perhaps not, however if we introduce five billion barrels of oil to the VCSE in the matter of one hour at fifty percent less than the going rate what will happen?” The Emperor looked slightly smug as several of the bankers rose from their chairs shouts already forming on their lips.

“You can’t deregulate oil! Our exports are already shaky enough we do not need this! There will be no stability!”

“I have spoken with the Charimen of the Scant Group this morning and he confirms that our oil reserves will survive; for the matter of exports we cannot hope to attack without equal risk.”

“Your Majesty!” Thorad seemed to have forgotten all protocol, “Your plan is to give them oil? Your elaborate plan to cow the Vetalians is to give them cheap oil? It may annoy someone, somewhere, but it will be the end of us.”

Another banker, from a dark corner of the room lit a match, which burst into a super nova in the semi-darkness, “Unless of course they are buying out oil with our money. Your Majesty how many Rubles are at our disposal?”

With a huge grin the Emperor nodded to the corner, “Two billion, in circulation, within the Empire itself, not nearly enough of course.”

“Will we be printing additional notes? I understand the Laserwerks at Hemsen could produce quite an excellent likeness.”

“I would prefer not to have to. The Cenobiarch has candidly put out that we will trade silver for Rubles within the diocese of the Church, however this will,” the Emperor waved his hands around suggesting it again would not be enough.

“Where will we find the remainder?”

“The Blackhelm Confederacy.”

“Really?”

“I am afraid so. A letter will be sent within the day.”

The two nodded slightly as if all that had been needed to be said had been said, the remainder of the room however seemed to be lagging behind considerably. “Tell them,” the Emperor nodded once again.

“Any economy which out steps it’s boundaries, becomes too powerful, has only become too powerful through and with a system of interdependence. It is the basis of trade, the exchange of wealth for wealth, in any form. However most present, economic models are based entirely on hope, not gold, not land, or manpower, or food, but on hope. Hope that the Ruble will not collapse and the thin charade is dismissed, there is not a chance in Hell that even we can pay, at any given moment, the intended value of all the Reichmarks both here and overseas; as you gentlemen know. Vetalia is undoubtedly a chronic sufferer of the same strain. So our ultimate goal must be to take from the Vetalians their material wealth and replace with only more hope.”

“Then why,” Thorad asked testily, he did not appreciate being talked down to by one of his own subordinates, “are we giving them oil?”

The figure in the easy chair attempted to speak but faltered, a shadowed head turned to the Emperor who smiled wryly. “Hope Mr. President, we must give them hope, and then take it away.”

OOC Sorry about the wait Vetalia everything is in order now.

Pressure sucked in on the body of the plane; to the more probing mind it was quite enough, if enough thought was given to the matter, to drive the unprepared mind to paranoia. Luckily this was not at all on the mind of Alberto Orsini, who oblivious to all this paged through a magazine. Most of the articles were of himself, or at least fabricated on his behalf, they spoke of his tremendous buyouts of a handful of drilling consortiums across the globe, and the massive fortune he had acquired in doing so.

In the first editorial a woman of some fervor proclaimed him to be the ‘Messiah of Management’ and praised his acumen for several pages. Of course this letter had more than likely been written by one of the many government censors, which had spread a web of fictitious stories about his own success about the world media. Of course he had been a moderately successful man, for even being considered for this assignment, his name had to have some notoriety. Then a proposal from the Imperial Economic Office had slipped onto his desk, and when he, after traveling up the Imperial Hierarchy and a great many briefings, had signed onto the plan the government had clandestinely bought out several corporations and signed them over to Orsini Oil.

Overnight his firm had grown ten fold to represent almost four trillion in assets across the globe, most of them centered around the subsidized heavy industries in Waldenburg itself. He was being hailed, in the foreign media as well as the Imperial Herald, as the up and mogul, and now apparently he had big plans for Vetalia.

“Half an hour, Mr. Orsini.” A flight attendant of Amazonian proportions whispered to him as she carefully refilled his snifter from a decanter that suggested some glassblower had closed his eyes, hoped for the best and allowed the goldsmith free reign. The entire cabin was heavy with gold and silver, and what was not crafted precious materials was sleek and business like, cold steel and soft leather.

“And when does the oil hit the markets?” Orsini’s voice was gentle and gave the listener the impression he was about to here a long dissertation on the cloying, but not unpleasant subject, it flowed in what would be a monotone were it not for the sheer accent of lowlandish brogue on his tongue.

“Seventeen minutes, four billion barrels will be placed on the market however hey will not be available till tomorrow morning to the open floor of course. That gives us thirteen hours in which to frighten the natives.” The woman, who had been furnished mainly for her chest on which could easily be balanced a full tea set, had also been chosen for her own acumen and connections to the Divine Legion. On the first day of their meeting some weeks ago, when Orsini had pulled his jaw into something remotely resembling normal and made a few advances of his own on the woman she had calmly explained that she was a nun and barring any sacred vows could break a man’s pelvis with both hands tied behind her back. Orsini believed her entirely and had since treated her with a warm apathy.

“According to the imperial plan we offer no more than three hundred million barrels a day, it should be quite sufficient to shatter the price, hopefully the mere presence will startle the system into speculation and drive down all other competition. And need I say anything of speculation? And you know your part?”

“Of course; the trillionaire playboy with big plans.”

“Very good. They should be requesting confirmation codes about now. Are you ready?”

“Absolutely.” Orsini sat up in his leather seat and took a few relaxing breaths, straightening his tie and then staring at the attendant with a roguish look that had not been there before. “When we land, tell Vetalian Air they can keep the plane, then find a nice hotel, nothing to touristy, and buy it won’t you?” With a bow the woman disappeared up to the cockpit, where even now the pilot was gracefully brining the pilot down.

Alberto checked his watch, which in itself was a masterpiece work with each hour being picked out in ivory from animals so endangered that the mere piecing together of this watch had sent the charts spiraling towards extinction. Only nine minutes till his oil was registered in the commodity and futures logs of all Vetalian stock exchanges.

With a faint smile Orsini leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes; it had been a stressful few weeks and even a power nap would refresh him to no end. And as his eyes closed he recalled his economics terms taught by a series of increasingly crusty teachers. Nearly two decades ago most of them had applied to a school of thought which stressed that money never circulate, and that no single nation, or indeed human could change the system without destroying themselves in the process. He very much hoped this was not the case.