The "office" of the Union Stockyards was not a room. It was a glass box suspended above the killing floor.
Jason, Sarah, and O'Malley walked up the metal staircase, their boots ringing on the grating. Below them, the factory roared.
It was a symphony of industrial death.
Cattle moved on conveyor belts. Pneumatic hammers slammed down. Thud-hiss. Thud-hiss. Men in blood-soaked aprons sliced, stripped, and hooked carcasses in a blur of motion.
There was no wasted movement. No talking. No breaks. It was terrifyingly efficient.
"It looks like a clock," Sarah whispered, horrified. "A clock made of meat."
They reached the top. The door to the glass box opened.
The air inside was filtered. It smelled of turpentine and ozone.
A man stood at a drafting table, his back to them. He wore denim overalls covered in grease stains and flecks of red paint.
He was sketching rapidly on a massive blueprint.
"Adolf Hitler," Jason said.
The man turned around.
He didn't look like the dictator from the history books. His famous mustache was gone—singed off, leaving a patch of scar tissue on his upper lip. His hair was messy, flecked with gray. His eyes were blue and burning with a manic, exhausted intensity.
"Herr Prentice," Hitler said softly. His voice was a rasp. He didn't shout. "You are late. Efficiency dictates punctuality."
He wiped his hands on a rag.
"You brought the gold?" he asked.
"Twenty tons," Jason said. "Sitting in the mud outside. I want grain. I want bio-diesel. And I want to leave."
Hitler walked to the window. He looked down at the workers below.
"Gold," he mused. "A soft metal. Conductive, yes. But structurally weak. It cannot feed a child. It cannot power a generator."
He turned back to Jason.
"I do not want your yellow metal, Herr Prentice. We do not use currency in the Yards. We use calories."
"Calories?" O'Malley asked, his hand hovering near his pistol.
"Energy in, energy out," Hitler said. He picked up a walnut from a bowl on his desk. He placed it on a gold bar Jason had brought as a sample. He smashed the nut with a heavy stapler. The gold bar dented.
"Useless," Hitler said, sweeping the gold onto the floor. "I want the Algorithm."
Jason stiffened.
"The Logic Bomb," Hitler clarified. "The code you used to break Washington. I saw the reports. Simultaneous neural overload. Perfect synchronization."
He gestured to the floor below.
"My workers are efficient. But they are human. They get tired. They hesitate. They feel."
Hitler leaned in, his scarred lip twitching.
"I want to remove the hesitation. I want to optimize the food supply of America. Imagine, Herr Prentice. No hunger. No waste. A perfect system."
"You want to turn them into robots," Sarah said, disgusted. "Like Gates did."
"Gates was a crude mechanic," Hitler dismissed. "He wanted slaves. I want artists of industry."
"The code is gone," Jason lied. "The device was destroyed."
"The device, yes," Hitler smiled. It was a cold, thin smile. "But the architect stands before me. You built it. You can build it again."
"I can't," Jason said. "But I can consult. I can teach you... logistics."
Hitler stared at him. Then he shrugged.
"Come," Hitler said. "Let me show you why I need your mind."
He opened the door to the catwalk.
They walked out over the "Rendering Plant."
This section of the factory was different. The smell was sweeter, thicker.
Jason looked down at the conveyor belts entering the massive steel grinders.
He expected to see cattle bones. Offal.
He saw boots.
He saw uniforms.
Jason stopped. He gripped the railing.
"Are those..."
"Ford's soldiers," Hitler said calmly. "Casualties of the air raids. Rioters from the city. Those who died of the flu."
Sarah gagged. She pressed a hand to her mouth.
Bodies. Human bodies. Moving along the belt toward the grinders.
"You're eating people?" O'Malley roared, drawing his gun.
"Put it down!" Jason ordered, though his own stomach was heaving.
"Eating? No," Hitler looked offended. "That would be barbaric. This is fuel."
He pointed to the massive tanks labeled BIO-DIESEL.
"The fat is rendered into oil. The bones are ground into phosphorus for fertilizer. The calcium strengthens the steel."
Hitler looked at Jason with genuine pride.
"In nature, Herr Prentice, nothing is wasted. The lion eats the gazelle. The grass eats the lion. Why should society be different? We are recycling the dead to power the living. It is the ultimate efficiency."
"It's monstrous," Sarah whispered.
"It is necessary," Hitler snapped. "Look at the city! Darkness! Cold! Starvation! Here, the lights are on! Here, the children are warm! I burn the dead so the living do not freeze!"
Wooooo-OOOOOO-ooooo!
A siren wailed. A low, vibrating sound that shook the glass.
"Air raid!" a voice shouted over the PA. "Ford bombers! Sector Four!"
Hitler looked up at the skylight.
"They come every night," he sighed. "Like flies to a carcass. They want my grain."
He looked at Jason.
"You say you are a master of logistics? Prove it. Defend my factory, and I will fill your ship."
Jason looked at the approaching shadows in the skylight. He looked at the horror on the conveyor belts.
He hated this man. He hated this place.
But he needed the fuel.
"O'Malley," Jason said. "Get to the AA guns."
"Boss, you can't be serious," O'Malley argued. "We're fighting for a cannibal?"
"We're fighting for fuel," Jason said grimly. "Get on the guns!"
Jason ran to the tactical map on the wall. It was a chalkboard grid of the city.
"What is your anti-aircraft defense?" Jason asked Hitler.
"Flak cannons," Hitler said. "But they are inaccurate. We waste ammunition."
"You're firing at where they are," Jason said, grabbing a piece of chalk. "You need to fire at where they will be."
Jason closed his eyes. He visualized the standard bombing run patterns of 1920. Ford was using WWI tactics. Low approach. Banking turn. Drop.
He drew a vector on the board.
"Sector Seven," Jason barked. "Elevation 2,000 feet. Time delay three seconds."
Hitler picked up a telephone.
"Battery Alpha," Hitler ordered. "Sector Seven. Elevation 2,000. Fire on my mark."
Through the skylight, three Ford bombers dove out of the clouds.
"Wait..." Jason watched the lead plane. It banked left. Just as he predicted.
"NOW!" Jason yelled.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
The flak cannons on the roof fired in unison.
Black clouds of shrapnel exploded in the air.
The lead bomber flew directly into the cloud. The wing sheared off. The plane spun, trailing smoke, and crashed into the green, glowing river.
A cheer went up from the workers below.
The other two planes broke formation and fled.
Hitler lowered the phone. He looked at the burning wreck in the river. Then he looked at Jason.
"Precision," Hitler whispered. "Beautiful."
He turned to Jason.
"You have a deal. I will load your grain. I will fill your tanks with the... rendered fuel."
"We're leaving," Jason said. "Now."
"One condition," Hitler raised a finger. "You cannot stay. You are too dangerous. But I need a teacher. Someone to explain this... predictive math."
He pointed at the chalkboard.
"Leave me one of your scientists," Hitler said. "Or the ship stays."
Jason froze.
"No," Jason said. "My crew stays together."
"Then you starve together," Hitler shrugged.
Silence.
"I'll stay."
Jason turned.
Albert Einstein stood in the doorway. The physicist looked old. His hair was wild, his eyes sad. He held his violin case.
"Professor," Jason said. "No. You know what he is."
"I know what he will become if he is not guided," Einstein said softly. He looked at the rendering plant. "He seeks efficiency without morality. That is the equation for an atomic bomb."
Einstein stepped forward.
"I will stay, Jason. I will teach him the math. And I will ensure he does not find the... heavier elements."
"He'll kill you," Sarah said, tears in her eyes.
"He needs me," Einstein said. He looked at Hitler. "I am the variable you are missing, Herr Organizer. Conscience."
Hitler looked at Einstein. He nodded slowly.
"Acceptable."
An hour later.
The Icarus rose into the night sky. The engines hummed smoothly, burning the gruesome bio-diesel.
Jason stood at the porthole.
Down in the mud, amidst the cattle bones, stood two figures.
Adolf Hitler, the Painter of Blood.
And Albert Einstein, the man who regretted the universe.
They watched the ship leave.
"We left him in hell," Sarah whispered, standing beside Jason.
"He chose it," Jason said. His voice was hollow. "To save us from the bomb."
He looked at the green river glowing in the dark.
"We're running on blood now, Sarah," Jason said, watching the smoke rise from the exhaust. "Let's hope it burns clean."
He turned away from the window.
"Set a course for the West," Jason ordered. "We have one more stop. And I'm done negotiating."