National Capitalism #4: Patrons of the Desert Republic
The two nations that could be called the patrons of the Arab Federal Republic were Britain and Korea. But their policies toward the Middle East couldn't have been more diametrically opposed.
First off, Britain—already entrenched in the region with its vested interests—wanted this Arab Federal Republic to become a staunch pro-British stronghold. That's why they helped establish the state, drilled rigs into the desert sands, and footed the bill for it all.
So what about Korea? We started by building fences. Truce Oman, Iraq, and even Japanese-controlled Kuwait—all those were territories excluded from the Arab Federal Republic. Once the oil rights solidified, resource nationalism would inevitably flare up, and those tribes would no doubt start sucking on the straws we'd planted. So we hurriedly threw up barriers first and erected our obelisks to stake our claim.
The Arabs who'd been living there originally might've been pissed about those fences. Unfortunately for them, they couldn't direct their anger at Korea. Korea—that is, I, the Supreme Leader—had conjured water out of this desert through sheer force of will.
"If you don't want sanctions, behave yourselves."
"Yes, sir."
If Korea had an oasis on land, they might've raided it. But nope—Korea had ships that produced water, and these camel nomads couldn't seize a vessel.
Protest to the Arab Federal government? No point of contact even existed, and if one did, facing down a Korean ship as the counterparty? They'd just shake their heads and mutter, "Take it up with them."
The silver lining? Korea turned out to be more reasonable foreigners than expected. We weren't about to tax dates from people whose only offerings to imperialists were the Quran and those same dates. Hell, we'd probably just get camel dung in return.
We'd already struck a deal with the government for water supplies, but real trade happened between the private(?) sectors anyway.
"Fill this tank with that black gold, and we'll trade it for water."
"Allah be praised!"
Korea doled out water at near giveaway prices by our standards. Along the border with Korea, desert tribes lined up on camels, each beast flanking wooden tanks—no, oil tanks—left and right. It wasn't just a few anymore; they'd gather and hold full-blown markets.
"Why waste a fortune on drilling rigs? Just dig a bit, and out comes the oil."
While Britain set up the government, inked deals with it, planted rigs, and planned to siphon oil indefinitely, Korea skipped the hassle. We just had those desert tribes pump the crude themselves and bought it at premium prices—in exchange for water.
With that water, they quenched their throats and started farming. Irregular supplies would've made it impossible before, but now there was a reliable source. Even if it was just enough to water a camel one extra time.
Britain wanted to bleed these Middle Easterners dry as eternal oil fields forever. Korea knew better. It was impossible anyway. Those people had dreams and futures too.
Didn't they crave our water-spewing ships? I figured they did. Humans all have dreams, after all.
Similarly, wouldn't those people want Britain's drilling rigs? Bet they did. If Britain wouldn't sell, they'd nationalize them by force. Obviously, Britain wouldn't sell, so the citizens would push for aggressive nationalization.
Once oil gained real value, it was inevitable.
What about our ships? Ships were trickier. That's why I'd chosen them deliberately. A ship incurred costs simply for being a ship, but it also gained protection for the same reason. No one would dare nationalize a vessel.
Why not build factories after getting promises against nationalization? Not a bad idea, but they weren't trustworthy. They'd see us as imperialists no matter what. How do I change that? Pretend we're a charity? I'd sooner embrace being an imperialist than play philanthropist.
Truce Oman? Iraq? Those were bigger headaches. I'd conquered them, so they'd take whatever I gave as their due.
In the Arab Federal Republic, water alone put us in the driver's seat. But in those two spots, withholding it would spark riots. So we had to deliver—and what we delivered was jam factories and canning plants. Specifically, jam and canning factories... with me as the buyer.
They needed something different. If the locals asked me to build jam and canning factories on-site, I'd nod eagerly and get to it. A bit of jam or canned goods as giveaway? Fine by me.
More importantly, that's how they'd sell jam and cans back to us. We'd supply the industrial base, infrastructure, tins, and glass jars; they'd supply jam and canned fruit. Perfect virtuous cycle.
Middle Eastern fruits were insanely sweet across the board—barely any sugar needed to make them marketable. Solid value there. Sell to China? Jackpot. Those guys were suckers for sweets.
Anything else? The Middle East was prime for fruit farming. Just needed water. Blistering sun meant super-sweet yields. Process into jam and cans, ship everywhere? Money printer go brrr.
India? Money pit—plague den. Africa? Overt plague den. The Supreme Leader shrugged them off and turned his gaze upward.
Siberia, that frozen hell we'd been steadily reclaiming for Korean interests. And the territories of war-torn Russia and the Russian People's Republic. Even now, rails were snaking through, filming their own Snowpiercer sequel. Beyond that lay our next target.
Empress Alexandra nodded. "Caspian fishing rights? Thirty years? In wartime, who cares about selling that? We're allies—cheap for you."
Iran's prime minister nodded too. "Caspian fishing rights? Thirty years? Of course. In exchange for building freezers? Much obliged."
Korea snapped up Caspian Sea fishing rights from Russia and Iran. With the Eurasia Railway and onboard freezers, hauling fish back to Korea was child's play.
The issue? Commercial viability. Even Russia and Iran found it baffling—the Caspian wasn't exactly teeming with fish right now. It was a closed lake, a landlocked sea. Overfishing had depleted even the once-profitable sturgeon. The Volga dams only made it worse.
But as a future man, I knew. Despite all that, the Caspian bred sturgeon like nowhere else. Specifically, it produced ultra-pure caviar. The pinnacle of luxury.
More precisely, the world's finest caviar came from here. Sure, wartime desperation and overhunting let them sell rights cheap—but historically, Russia never parted with Caspian fishing concessions. It was their golden goose. Even under the Soviets, probably worse—ideology would've made them pricklier. Tsars might sell for cash; Bolsheviks cared about comrades' livelihoods.
So Korea bought now. Had to. Miss this window, and no dice later. Soviets might block sturgeon farms with a "that's a bit much," then hypocritically offer "help" building their own. But if we'd already built ours and were raking it in? Nationalizing that would be dicey.
They'd still try, but here's the plan: Farm Caspian sturgeon fingerlings, raise them three years, then stock Siberian ponds everywhere.
Aim for that name prestige among British aristocrats: Caspian sturgeon caviar. Three years was when gonads matured, perfect size for Siberian release.
Of course, it wouldn't be "true" Caspian caviar—more like "Caspian-flavored." But does the world run on pure logic? Nah. Inferior-but-high-yield "luxuries" outsell true perfection every time. Look at Chanel or Louis Vuitton bags—more aspirational than authentic, yet stock prices soar. Made in China by "artisans," and they fly off shelves.
That's reality. Real luxury flies under the radar. No need to advertise to the masses who can't afford it anyway.
From my reborn knowledge: luxury isn't branding—it's naming. Not "Hermès-made," but "made by this specific Hermès artisan." That's the quality guarantee.
True top-tier? No name needed. The material screams pedigree. Connoisseurs spot it.
In that light, fully Caspian-raised sturgeon boosts quality but tanks yield. Massive space, limited output—ramp up production, prices crash.
So add flavor. Feed 'em local Caspian baitfish. Foodies tsk-tsk, but who cares? I want cash, not tongue orgasms. Grow your own perfection if you're picky—at least put in wine-aging effort.
And even if world-class sturgeon caviar existed from those fish? Only one mouth it fits: mine. My mouth, breeding Caspian sturgeon. Who else's?
After sturgeon: down jackets from eiderdown. Dog sleds. Breeding programs for beavers and sea otters—half-exterminated by Russians (Steller's sea cows went full extinct). With those checks cleared, the Supreme Leader turned to the sea.
Southern Hemisphere bore sweet fruit; Northern swelled with livestock and fur. So the ocean? Coastal waters for fish, high seas for whales.