Working as a police officer in Mexico Chapter 1915: 815: "We Don't Sell God. We Only Rent God's Re

Capítulo 1915: Chapter 815: “We Don’t Sell God. We Only Rent God’s Restroom.

xico City, top floor of the “Feathered Serpent Temple” private salon

The air conditioning was on full blast, but the heat in the room ca from elsewhere.

The cigar smoke mixed with the aroma of aged Tequila, while the gilded Aztec ornantation glinted dully under dim lighting.

Victor wasn’t sitting in the main seat; he leaned against the bar, rotating a glass of amber liquid in his hand, watching the Europeans marvel at the quantum processor prototype data projected holographically.

“This isn’t a chip, it’s God’s eyeball.”

Italian Luca Rossi’s eyes were wide, his fingers hesitating to poke through the light blue veil, “You guys really stabilized quantum bit entanglent at room temperature?”

“What else?”

Casare grinned, showing his smoke-stained teeth, “By praying? We burned two billion US dollars and lost three PhDs in physics—two worked to death, and one damn clumsy guy knocked over his coffee in the lab, short-circuited himself to death. Now, this thing can simultaneously calculate all of Europe’s tax loopholes and the Vatican’s prayers right under your nose, with an error rate lower than the probability of your wife cheating.”

French Minister Madland’s face twitched.

He almost blurted out…

His wife cheated a lot, but that’s traditional French romance.

German Count Von Schwarzenberg stared at the data stream, his voice dry: “This will require… matching cooling systems and algorithm fraworks, where did you—”

“Made it ourselves.”

Bramo adjusted his glasses, “The algorithm is based on our own mathematical system, and the cooling system uses old Soviet submarine parts we salvaged from North Arican junkyards—cheap, rugged, and EMP-resistant. Of course, if you’d like a more ‘civilized’ version, we can customize it, at a price…” He smiled, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Spanish banker Alvarez gulped, “This technology… how do you plan to collaborate? Equity? Patent licensing? Or…”

“None of the above.”

Victor finally spoke, his voice not loud but enough to absorb all the noise. He set down the glass, the bottom clinking crisply against the marble countertop.

“We don’t sell God. We only rent out God’s bathroom.”

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There was a mont of silence in the room.

“What do you an?” Rossi asked.

“It ans this.”

Victor stepped closer, the holographic light reflecting on half his face, “The processor stays with us, the data center is here, and the algorithms are maintained by us. Your European companies, research institutions, even governnts—pay, connect, use. Charge by computation, tier by confidentiality level. We can sign an agreent to ensure data sovereignty remains yours, but the hardware and core operations… remain in our hands.”

“That’s impossible!”

Von Schwarzenberg blurted out, his face flushed, “This ans entrusting Europe’s next-generation computing lifeline to outsiders! Berlin won’t agree, Brussels even less so—”

“Who the hell asked Berlin and Brussels?”

Victor interrupted him, his tone suddenly hardening, “I’m asking you all. You, Von Schwarzenberg, the supervisory board of Rheintall, controlling 30% of Germany’s defense orders, and your wife’s family dominates half of Bavaria’s auto parts factories. Tell , do you want to wait three years for those waste governnt bureaucrats in Berlin to bicker, only to have your clients taken by Aricans or others offering lower-priced quantum cloud services, or get a key now that can cut through next-gen tank armor and optimize engine efficiency by 15%?”

He moved closer to the old German, his height advantage forcing the latter to look up.

“I’m not asking you, Count. I’m giving you an opportunity, to climb aboard our speedboat before your rust-prone industrial juggernaut sinks. You can refuse, head back to the hotel tonight, watch our racing cars win three more gold dals tomorrow, and see your car stocks drop another ten points next month. Or…”

Victor leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering as if blades scraped a drumhead, “You could be the first to connect the ‘Feathered Serpent Computing Cloud’ to the European industrial network. By then, forget Berlin, even Paris would be kneeling to you for access codes.”

Von Schwarzenberg’s breathing grew heavy, his fingers instinctively clutching the glass. He caught a faint scent of gunpowder from Victor—not real explosives, but sothing more dangerous, the stench of power.

French Minister Madland cleared his throat, attempting to maintain composure, “Chairman Victor, the cooperation model can be discussed, but this approach… is indeed too aggressive. Europe has its own rules and concerns, like data security, technological dependency—”

“Data security?”

Casare snorted beside him, “Minister, do I need to project last year’s records of your French Telecom being wiretapped by Aricans? Or do you want to see videos of your Alstom executives singing La Marseillaise in Arican prisons?”

Madland’s face turned instantly pale.

“As for technological dependency…” Victor straightened, scanning the room, “Open your eyes to the world. In the internal combustion era, you relied on Middle Eastern oil, and in the information era, you depended on Arican chips and software. Now the quantum era is here, who do you want to depend on? Wait for handouts from Washington? Let them tighten the technological chains around your neck, forcing you to raise hands at the United Nations to bomb the next Yugoslavia?”

He returned to the bar, picked up his glass again, and drank it down in one go, his Adam’s apple moving.

“I don’t sell dreams, I sell reality. The reality is, the old system is over. Finance, energy, military, intelligence—all pillars of power are cracking. What smart people should do now isn’t patching up, but quickly finding new pillars to lean on.”