Andrei Stevens POV
July 1974
The final contract arrived on thick paper, its dense blocks of legalese a stark contrast to the colorful crayon sketches of Lionel the Cat that had birthed it. I traced a finger over the embossed logo of Penguin Books, a tangible signal that the exercise had become an enterprise.
The negotiation, conducted through a frosty but efficient London solicitor my father had engaged, was a masterclass in strategic retreat for long-term gain. We conceded the primary book publishing rights for the British Commonwealth, a sizable market that would give Lionel his best chance to find an audience. The advance was modest, almost symbolic—a few hundred pounds. But the royalty percentage was fair for an unknown author, even one with a pen name managed by a major house.
The victory was in the clauses my mother, Margaret, had insisted upon. With the sharp eye of an economist who understood assets, she had drawn a firm line.
"The book is the entry point, Andrei," she'd explained, pointing at the draft contract over the breakfast table. Damien was trying to balance a spoon on his nose, and Daphne was meticulously sorting cereal pieces by shape, creating a bizarre boardroom atmosphere. "The real value isn't in the paper and ink. It's in the idea of Lionel. That idea can live in other forms. We must keep those doors open."
Because of her, the contract stipulated that all other rights—translation, film, television, merchandising, stage adaptations—remained firmly with "the Author's represented holding company," a bland legal phrase that masked the soon-to-be-created entity my father was structuring. We even secured a first-option clause for Penguin to invest in any future adaptation, but only at market rate and with no obligation on our part.
It was a stunningly good deal for a five-year-old. No, for any debut author. It was protection. It was foresight. It was my family building the ramparts around my strange little venture.
Sending off the final character sheets—Lionel with his magnifying glass, the grumpy badger constable, the maps of the whimsical village of Mouseton—felt like releasing a part of myself into the wild. A controlled, anonymous, legally-protected part.
With the practical work done and the summer sun high, my mind, ever restless under the System's quiet influence, began to chart the next vector. The Organiser' [Foundational Knowledge] objective was progressing. The publishing deal was a tangible "application of knowledge." But the ultimate goal, the legacy in Hollywood, required capital. Significant, self-directed capital.
Buying Apple in a garage? Investing in Microsoft before DOS? The fantasy was alluring but fraught with catastrophic risk. It wasn't just the "how" of a child orchestrating such investments; it was the "then." Becoming a historical anomaly attracts the wrong kind of attention—from governments, from rivals, from anyone wondering how a pre-teen predicted the silicon revolution with pinpoint accuracy. That was a path back to the laboratory, not the boardroom.
My plan, slowly crystallizing, was different. It was about pattern recognition, not prophecy.
I wouldn't seek out the garage startups. I would watch for the first tremors of success and become a disciplined, second-wave believer. When a company like Apple had its first real hit, the Apple II in 1977, and needed capital to scale—that's when a savvy investor enters. When a gaming company like Atari exploded with Pong and needed to fund its arcade domination, that's the moment. The risk is lower, the growth trajectory is proven, and the return, while less astronomical than seed funding, is still transformative.
The goal wasn't to be a mythical venture capitalist. It was to build a reputation as a sound investor with an uncanny nose for durable trends in media and technology. A patron of the new, not a creator of it. The capital for this would, ideally, come from Lionel. A successful children's series could generate a steady, respectable stream of royalties. That stream could be the initial fund.
Sitting in the sun-dappled garden, I watched Damien attempt to teach a profoundly disinterested Daphne how to kick a football. The System interface hovered, a silent partner.
[ SYSTEM: PATHWAY UPDATE DETECTED. ]
[ Tangible Milestone Achieved: First Commercial Contract. ]
[ Asset Growth Protocol: Active. ]
[ Suggestion: Utilize impending Library Access (8/15/1974) for market analysis refinement. ]
My sixth birthday was weeks away. My second hour of direct access to the 2024 Library. Last year, I'd indexed world culture. This year, with a publishing deal in hand and an investment strategy forming, my search needed focus. I would need data: historical performance charts of key tech stocks, biographies of rising industry figures, timelines of consumer adoption. Not to copy, but to understand the rhythm of innovation.
Margaret joined me on the bench, her presence a quiet comfort. "A penny for them," she said, nodding toward my thoughtful gaze.
"Just thinking about birthdays," I said, which wasn't a lie.
"And lions and cats and the future?" she asked, her tone light but her eyes knowing.
"Something like that," I smiled. "Mostly about how to be… patient. And smart."
She put an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a half-hug. "You're already both, my cute little boy. Just don't forget to be five sometimes, too. The rest will come."
I leaned into her side, watching my siblings play. The contract was signed. The path was clear. The capital would come. And in a few weeks, I would have another hour in the Library to sharpen my tools for the next phase of the game.
The foundation was laid. Now, it was time to start building the empire, one prudent brick at a time.