War is not only waged with bullets and steel.
It is also waged with pens and protocol—and sometimes, the blade hidden beneath a diplomat's smile.
Geneva Summit
The Conférence de l'Industrie Neutre, held in Geneva's Grand Palais on August 31st, 1914, was meant to be a neutral forum.
Officially, it was a gathering of engineers, industrialists, and policymakers from over a dozen nations to discuss non-aligned military logistics.
Unofficially?
It was a battlefield of shadows.
Emil Dufort attended as the "technical advisor" of Forge Libre. The French government had labeled him a rogue. The British, a resource. The Swiss? They just wanted him out of their newspapers.
Vera warned him as he adjusted his tie.
"This isn't Verdun, Emil. You can't beat these people with steel."
"I won't need to," he said. "I'll use ideas. And I'll make them afraid of losing to the truth."
The Delegations
The summit hall was marble, gilded, echoing with old colonial grandeur.
Representatives filed in:
France: Led by Minister Bellac—slick, cold, and holding a personal grudge against Emil.
Britain: A split team—some sympathetic to Emil, others wary of his independence.
Germany: Technically excluded, but seated under "observer" status via neutral Sweden.
Italy, Austria-Hungary, Spain: Opportunists, eyeing Emil's inventions like vultures.
Henriette joined Emil at his table. Vera arrived later, carrying blueprints and an encrypted dossier.
"They're going to force a vote," Henriette whispered. "A motion to declare Forge Libre a 'destabilizing non-state entity'."
"Let them try," Emil replied.
Bellac's Speech
Minister Bellac took the podium with the elegance of a knife wrapped in velvet.
"France does not object to innovation. We object to ungoverned arsenals. Monsieur Dufort's organization has refused oversight, concealed assets, and traded weapons to foreign powers without sovereign approval. What is Forge Libre, if not a private army?"
The audience murmured. Emil stood.
"We are not an army. We are a response."
"To what?" Bellac demanded.
"To your failure."
Silence fell.
"You let men die in trenches without hope. We gave them tools to live. You speak of governance. We speak of dignity. If that threatens your model of control—then your model deserves to fall."
A Note Passed
As tension mounted, a page handed Emil a folded card.
He opened it.
"Meet me in Salon 3B at midnight. We have unfinished business."
No signature.
But the handwriting…
He knew it.
The Meeting
Salon 3B was a windowless lounge two floors beneath the conference ballroom.
Emil entered at 23:59.
The figure waiting inside stood near the fireplace, turning a gold pen between his fingers.
"Good evening, Emil."
"Fuchs," Emil said coldly.
"You remember me fondly."
"I remember betrayal."
Wilhelm Fuchs, former intelligence agent, former "ally," and now—dressed as a civilian diplomat for the German military-industrial delegation.
"You're harder to find than a Prussian who bathes," Fuchs smirked.
"Why summon me?"
"To offer you a path. Germany is not blind. You've built something extraordinary. But you're at a crossroads."
"And you want me to what—join you?"
"No. I want you to outgrow France and Britain. Work with us, Emil. Share your methods. Design with us. Think with us."
"While you murder my homeland?"
"Your homeland exiled you. We're offering you a laboratory."
"At the cost of conscience."
"Conscience is a resource, like oil. Finite. You've spent yours already."
Emil stood still for a long moment.
Then:
"Tell your masters: I'm not interested in building weapons for empires. I'm interested in ending them."
The Bombing of Lyon
The next morning, as the Geneva summit debated the Forge Libre vote, news arrived:
Lyon, second-largest industrial city in France, had suffered a coordinated air raid—three simultaneous Zeppelin strikes and biplane strafing runs.
Civilian deaths: over 300.
Infrastructure damage: catastrophic.
The culprits?
German air squadrons.
But within hours, papers began circulating a claim: Forge Libre radar designs had been leaked to the enemy.
"They're pinning it on us," Vera spat, slamming down the papers.
"Fuchs's revenge," Henriette said.
"And Bellac's opportunity," Emil added. "They'll weaponize it to push the vote."
The Vote
The chamber reconvened at 17:00. Bellac led the charge.
"This is no longer theoretical. Dufort's designs have enabled the enemy. If he cannot secure them, we must."
He produced a document: Motion 114—a multilateral agreement to sanction Forge Libre, embargo its materials, and formally designate it as a "rogue paramilitary-industrial entity."
A two-thirds vote would make it binding among signatories.
The count began.
France: Yes
Austria-Hungary: Yes
Spain: Abstain
Britain: …
Pause.
"Her Majesty's Government votes: No."
Gasps.
Emil turned to see James Caldwell, the British diplomat from Normandy, standing firm.
"Forge Libre has given Britain more than machines," he said. "It gave our soldiers hope. We will not condemn that."
The Fallout
The vote failed—by one.
Bellac stormed out.
Later that night, Emil met Caldwell near the lakeside promenade.
"Why?" Emil asked.
"Because I believe in leverage. And in you."
"So this is about trade?"
"It's about tomorrow. Britain doesn't want you crushed. It wants you independent—and grateful."
"I'm neither."
Caldwell smiled.
"Then we'll just settle for effective."