Transterran Gambit

Procyon-2/ Octavia

The domes covering the surface of the planet were black. Every inch of exposed surface was covered with solar-collection tiles to maximize the daily harvest from the harsh twins, Procyon A & B. Environmental systems kept the temperature in each dome and building mild. Outside, the suns-light had to be dampened with filters to avoid glare blindness, life under the domes was perpetual twilight. Broad-leaf plants engineered to absorb naked sunlight drank in Octavia’s CO2 blanket and expelled Oxygen.

“Looking at the total output from the automated factories in Lalande system, we see that the new control suite installs and software upgrades have improved the efficiency of each facility by an average margin of twelve percent and in this we’ve reached the absolute efficiency possible for the technology. We, in the production directorate, feel that even at peak efficiency, the Lalande factories will continue to meet quota for another two decades before new facilities have to be constructed to meet projected supply demanded.”

“Gross revenue?” Chairman Jean LeFleur always carried the microdisc with his Earthly lineage in his pocket. He could claim lineage to two kings of Europe, one pope, and an Old Earth director of the European Space Agency (ESA). Although he’d emigrated to the Procyon system, he kept the disc to remind himself of where he’d come from.

“Domestic consumption accounts for twenty percent of annual production, bringing approximately two billion Terran credits per quarter into our accounts. Another twenty percent goes in bulk to New Saxony… that’s eight-point-eight billion there. Forty percent goes to New Haven and brings back roughly twenty billion in revenue. The remaining ten percent are kept in inventory. All told, production from the Lalande system, after distribution, brings in thirty billion credits annually.”

The underling he was grilling could claim no such reputation. Lefleur didn’t know the young man’s name, but there were many people of Transterran Interstellar that he didn’t know… he figured that 99% of his employees were no more than faces passed in a corridor, but even nameless underlings deserved to be treated with respect. He’d learned that at his previous posting, where one day someone’s abused underling had brought a gun to work and painted the office walls interesting shades of red. “Let’s move on to the Tau Ceti system. How many factories do we have operating there?”

“Two dozen, sir. Most are in orbit, but we built a half dozen on the surface of New Saxony as a concession to the government there, they’re less efficient than those fully automated. Here, we’re producing general purpose meds that don’t require as much fine touching as those we’re manufacturing in Lalande, open supply analgesics and general purpose remedies. The factories here have not yet received any production upgrades yet, there’s also the human factor involved, so the quotas have been less stringent than in other facilities.”

“Put them next on the list for full automation. If the local government objects, remind them of our past… generosity,” Lefleur said and annotated the list he kept running on his personal data pad. “Express our condolences regarding the jobs lost and assure them that we’re taking steps to address the problem. I want a retraining program before we announce the factory upgrades. Where else can we funnel labor into?”

“Tau Ceti has many shipyards operating at minimum capacity. Jobs could be created in those few with the large pressure docks necessary to refit capital ships. As it is, we’ve only managed to get a small portion of the garrison fleet there upgraded and spaceworthy. The crews of those ships have been instrumental in completing the refits.”

“They ought to be, for what we’re paying them. Perhaps we can funnel some of our excess labor supplied into the EuroCon fleet,” LeFleur said and thought for a moment. “Inform the commander of Seven Kreigsmarine that we want him to begin weeding out the deadwood among the officer and enlisted corp. I want some fresh thinking in there... mercenary objections be damned,” He frowned as he programmed a query into his data pad that returned no hits. “What assets do we have ready for deployment?”

“Aquitaine, Storstrom, Salzburg, and Valencia, sir, with eight more ready by the end of second quarter. The regional offices of Dassault have been very helpful in supplying the necessary parts and technical support. If you’d like to see the expenses they’ve delivered for their services I can bring them up on your pad-screen.”

Lefleur created a new file and entered the names in. He nodded and looked up to meet the aide’s eyes. “I’ve seen them… quite a bargain. Twelve provinces. They ought to help us eradicate the pirate vermin we’ve been having such a hard time with lately.”

“I overheard something over the last several days that may be cause for concern, sir. Finding reloads has been a problem. Dassault Procyon is happy to provide us with their most current fighter technology, but in terms of self-guiding munitions, the old EuroCon arsenal may be insufficient for our needs. Much of the stockpile has deteriorated over time.”

“Do we have any contractors online?” Lefleur said and raised an eyebrow. The aide swallowed hard and tried not to tremble as he retrieved what information he had on the subject. The chairman/CEO’s patience had a finite limit.

The aide tried to slow his beating heart and said, “The Russians have expressed a willingness to supply us but their expendables are of questionable quality- copies of older NorCom designs.”
“Send negotiators to them immediately. See to it personally. Also begin checking the EuroCon stocks. A few positions can be opened in the directorate assigned to checking the stockpile for duds,” A laugh that ended when the chief of the security directorate came into the room from an adjoining office. The dour look usually pasted over his face combined with his square head tinged with graying hair earned him the nickname, ‘Frankenstein,’ though he was addressed in polite company as Raphael. Lefleur turned to the aide and said, “What’s your name, son?”

Another worried swallow as the aide said, “Kilgore, sir… Newton Kilgore.”

“Well done, Mister Kilgore. I expect to see again for the next briefing,” Lefleur said to the visible relief of the young man before him. “Your supervisor will be informed of your professionalism and excellence. Now if you would be so kind to excuse us please.”

“Of course.” Kilgore said and collected his things.

Lefleur watched him until he exited, then turned to Raphael and said, “What is it now? I admit that I almost dread seeing you anymore. You always bring me such bad news.”

Raphael was not the sort to tremble, even in the face of death, something that Lefleur occasionally felt the need to met out. He looked Lefleur in the eye, gave him a short, humble bow, and said, “I regret to report that our systems have been penetrated, sir… two months ago. Some our most sensitive files have been compromised.”

Lefleur sighed. Industrial espionage was one of the constants he’d come to realize came along with the business. “But you caught the last agent-Auric, her name was?”

“She was working in tandem. Under questioning she revealed the name Argent but blocked our further attempts to follow that line. We thought it might be an attempt to mislead us until our monitoring systems picked up the system interruptions indicating a break-in.”

Chairman Lefleur went livid. “Rescreen all hires going back for the last year from all offices!” He quickly calmed himself. “What files were… compromised?”

“The intruder, assuming that it was Argent, seemed particularly interested in the data core from Lab number four,” Raphael said. “The source formula for our new Serenity was copied, at least in part, before we were able to shut down the connection. This is probably the most serious breach.”

“How did he get in?” Lefleur demanded.

Raphael took an even breath. “He was using the access code of the local under-director of research and development. We’ve questioned that director already. He had no knowledge that his passcode had been stolen or by whom. He was clueless, too clueless we thought initially, but his story was the same even under chemical interrogation. Scientists- we should keep them in a cage until we need them to invent something.”

“Could this spy be a type-three?”

“It’s possible, sir. Auric was identified by our experts as a wild talent. We can only speculate on the identity of Argent, but it’s reasonable to say that he has some mental development. The best agents do.”

“Find this man. Find him! He must not be allowed out of this system. Stop all transports currently outbound for jump points. Search every single one of them until this person, this… thing… is found.”

“We’re working on it, sir. I have my best people assigned.”

His best people meant the company’s best people. Transterran boasted 4.8 million employees across a dozen systems. Lefluer calmed himself and said, “Find him.”

***

The arms-dealers had set up their stalls inside an unused warehouse outside the prime spaceport. Ships prepared for departure were visible through the large windows that looked out over the tarmac.

You had to hand it to them, Kilgore thought as he reviewed the arms-brokers products, as if walking through a museum. When the Russians came, they came with everything in the arsenal, including some pieces from before extra-solar transit. Each class of weapons was displayed in its own “gallery.” Firearms, beams, portable missiles, crew-crew served weapons, vehicles, armored vehicles, etc. Kilgore stopped when he came to the “Munitions” gallery.

“Would you like more information on any of our fine products?” The Russian manning the gallery was on him in an instant with a tight smile and a greeting spoken in impeccable Com-Lan. “We’ve negotiated with the system authorities to allow you a substantial discount on our products.”

“Show me your torpedoes.” Kilgore said and the salesman led off. Single examples of five different types were mounted on pedestals, each torpedo case polished to a high shine. Cyrillic markings were painted on critical panels.

“From left to right is the Type 1 through 4, the warheads start at thirty kilotons. Our most advanced model is the Akula. It carries a two hundred kiloton warhead. The rocket motor is capable of sustaining eight G’s of thrust for thirty seconds. The range on all our devices is between thirty-thousand and eighty-thousand kilometers. An Akula is equipped with an artificial intelligence that controls guidance. Terminal phase maneuvering negates countermeasures by targets some eighty percent.”

“How does this compare to what the NorCom has?”

“I am only an expert on our products, sir. However, I can tell you that the design was based on the NorCom Barracuda device, only improved by our own technology,” The salesman lied. The design wasn’t an improved Barracuda, just a copy of it, probably an inferior copy. “Performance characteristics are very similar.”

That, Kilgore reasoned, was probably true enough. He walked slowly down the line, examining each weapon, he stopped when he got to the Akula. 200 kilotons could seriously damage any warship deployed by any fleet. He tapped a finger on the torpedo case and said, “How many of these can you supply?”

The salesman clasped his arms behind his back and squinted at the far bulkhead. After several moments of thought, he looked down at Kilgore and said, “These weapons can be purchased in bulk lots of fifty each. We have fifty lots available. More can be delivered within thirty months.”

Kilgore did some basic math in his head. Each of the 12 Provinces mounted eight torpedo tubes, four in the nose, and four in the tail. Fifteen reloads for the front tubes, half as many for the rear would probably do. Thirty lots would deliver that, plus a few spares, one deployment’s worth of munitions. What would the Chairman do?

“Deliver all units to our naval depot near the starport. I think you know where to send the bill. Give us the contact information for your stockpiles in the area… just in case we need more.”

The Russian delivered a grateful bow. He worked on commission. “Of course, sir. It shall be as you say.”

His contact worked in the “Small Craft” gallery. When he walked in there were few people examining products. Displayed prominently was the new Su-355, a large space-fighter on static display behind ropes of red faux-velvet. The various payload arrangements were laid out around it; missiles, torpedoes, rapid-fire recoilless rifles, bombs, nukes.

“At least our fighters are original,” A voice came from behind him as Newton was admiring the Sukhoi. Another salesman. “After touring the rest of the galleries, clients come in here and are surprised by the original designs they see.”

“Thanks, but we’re already taken care of.” Kilgore shook his head.

“Don’t mind me asking but by whom?”

“Dassault. Our local branch.” Kilgore said.

“I’ll tell you what, bring your boys up here in their Dassaults and we’ll match them up against our demo team… sort of like a fly off, just for fun. I’m sure our demo team would love to do it.”

“Sorry, not my department.” Kilgore said and shrugged.

“I understand. It’s probably for the better anyway. Those Dassaults are generation old technology… what are they calling it? The Illusterie? Our Sukhoi can outrun the Illusterie in a flat out burn. It’s got more fuel tankage and bigger engines.”

“What about the new NorCom fighter… the Wolfhound?”

“It’s fast, yes… but no load carrying capacity at all. If you’ve seen our munitions gallery then you know that we have equipment to deal with it. No fighter ever made can outrun a missile.”

“I wouldn’t know. I was never a pilot.”

The salesman laughed. “Nor I. Some of us have different callings.”

Kilgore smiled and accepted the handshake his salesman offered. The mini-disc he’d been palming was taken almost imperceptibly. The salesman reached into his uniform-jacket and withdrew a card.

“If you see anyone from your aerospace procurement department, give them this, would you?” The salesman said as Kilgore wandered away, head down, examining the contact information on the plastic card. No new orders. Continue to watch the target. Next contact in 8 months. He dropped the card into the nearest incinerator and fired the burner until the card melted.

“You there! You girl! Stop!” The brusque voice of a security troop broke the museum calm of the market. Quiet conversations stopped as people turned to the cause of the disturbance. Kilgore turned. By-standers scattered as a girl ran toward him, black hair flying, looking over her shoulder for security forces. She skidded to a stop when she looked up and saw Kilgore as he stepped out of the “Small Craft” gallery.

“After her!”

The girl sneered and rushed toward Kilgore. Suddenly there was a weapon in her hand… a small pistol… that she pressed to his head and spun him around by the collar to face the approaching security troops, a human shield.

“Get back!” She snarled and wrapped an arm around his throat. The guards slowed and stopped but remained between them and the exit at the other end of the warehouse. She pulled the hammer back. “Do it or he gets his head blown off! Now!”

The girl checked behind her and began dragging him toward the emergency exit she’d spotted. Despite her thin frame, she was surprisingly strong; Kilgore could feel hard muscle pressed against his head as well as the barrel of a gun.

“Give it up,” The captain of the Transterran security team called to her. “You’ve got no place to go. There’s no way you can get off-planet. There’s no chance…”

Transterran and Russian guards scattered as she pointed the pistol at them and squeezed off several shots. Kilgore heard someone give a panicked shout and the few bystanders watching the exchange melted away. When she put the gun against his temple again, the barrel was warm. She put her head close to his and whispered, “Don’t get any ideas, hero. You’re mine until I get out of here.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Kilgore murmured back. “Just don’t develop any sudden twitches. I like my head where it is.”

She squeezed his neck harder as she backed toward the emergency exit door. “If any of you pigs even looks in my direction, this company cretin is a corpse!” The exit creaked open as she slammed her hip into the latch. She punctuated the threat with another shot from the pistol. A Transterran security officer cried out and spun to the floor.

The Octavia spaceport was busy. Trans-orbital shuttles roared as they leapt for the sky, others settled on gigantic pillars of thrust. Transfer vans and cargo haulers maneuvered around the landing pads in a well-choreographed, computer-controlled ballet that kept the flow of goods moving with minimal loss of human life. Kilgore felt his captor’s grip on his neck slacken as she slammed the exit door closed. Lying alongside the warehouse outer wall was a long piece of tubular metal scrap. She tucked the pistol into her waistband and used the scrap to bar the door.

“There has to be something ready to go.” The girl muttered as she visually swept the landing field. She drew the pistol again and seized Kilgore by the arm, fairly dragging him toward a EuroCon long-range courier sitting on a nearby pad, fueling lines still attached to the gray, aerodynamic hull. They broke into a run as the heavy thump of blows raining down on the inner door announced the imminent arrival of Transterran Security.

She reached the fast courier first and stowed the pistol to free her hands for more important tasks, Newton Kilgore nearly forgotten, having served his purpose of delaying the guards. The fuel couplings came off with the hiss of pressurized Liquid Hydrogen escaping, sublimating into the Octavian atmosphere.

“Stop them!” Came another shout and the piercing sound of a whistle blowing.

The girl turned and drew the pistol in a smooth motion, squeezing off several shots that scattered the security forces streaming out of the arms warehouse. She directed her worried gaze toward Kilgore, lifted the pistol and said, “Nothing personal, company-boy.”

“Run, Nova, run.” Kilgore said and saw stars as she struck him with the butt of the pistol just behind his left ear. His last impression of her before he lost consciousness was of a slender form climbing up into the courier through the belly hatch and slamming it closed.

***

Delta Pavonis

After 14 months in transit, USS Ranger emerged from the transit tunnel directly ahead of her jump flare, the piercing flash of physics in denial. The flare shot off into infinity as the glow rings around the drive-nozzles powered up and began to warm. For an instant of silent tranquility, the same inertia that carried her forward from the NorCom base at Bernard's Star to Delta Pavonis continued to move her, then engines the size of arenas came to life and delivered gravity.

The report about the ship being diverted to the Centauri system for VIP escort was misinformation. They joined up with the carrier Kitty Hawk waiting at Bernard's Star to take out the EuroCon fleet-in-storage before Transterran laid claim to it. No corporate-state could be allowed a fighting navy.

Passive sensors reached out to places invisible to the eye, returns were logged and identified as friendly, foe, or hazard-to-navigation. A single ship had a better chance of sneaking through the EuroCon sensor network around the space-station Festung 21 so Ranger went in alone. Kitty Hawk waited in the periphery to launch a mop-up attack from a different approach.

“Next target.” Hurricane said quietly as he adjusted his data-visor. It was an older model, heavier, and strained his neck muscles. “Christ and Allah, we should bomb the E-Cons just for putting us in this situation.”