Archaea 3: Red
Page 2
It's always a good time to upgrade, if you are in a good place for it – and as we topped out across the top of a pressure ridge and I saw the lights of the hab nestled along the base of the cliff in the distance, I realized this was definitely the right kind of place.
All of the habitats and colonies across Luna Freeside were duty- and tariff-free glom markets, but Tranquility Habitat was like the tech-center of the universe. Anything you might need could be had. Even if it wasn’t made here, it’s probably either being shipped here, or stored here. If you need something that isn’t available, there are offices here that will have it built and delivered anywhere you might want.
As big of a market as this is, being located this close to Earth it was pretty civilized, if not very well regulated. Luna Freeside was pretty autonomous from the laws and governments of Earth, but even so, the Terran Service has a very heavy presence on this rock. They are in orbit, they have boots on the dirt, and they are everywhere.
We didn’t really expect any trouble, but no one ever expects the trouble they get. While this won’t be anything like the markets in fringe space or the outer rim, where your only local authority is the glom or criminal gang that holds control over the sector; Tranquility would still be a perfectly good place to disappear. Suddenly I wished Yak looked a little more alert, and a little less asleep.
As we pulled closer, the lights of the habitat twinkled in the shadows of the looming cliffs above. Tranquility started out as a tubefarm, or so the story goes, just like the kinds we have on Vega 6. They punched it in the shaded side of the crater wall, and just kept going. They linked tunnels along the cliff face, and started working up and down the face of the cliff, adding more and more tubes until it was all connected. The more they tunneled in, the more they built out.
As we rolled on, the desolate cratered surface was giving way to endless expanses of solar farms, interspersed with stations and pipelines. In the distance, the tanks and domes of refineries, automated factories and storage facilities crawled across the base of the cliff like some sort of metal growth, an industrial plague.
Our grounder was getting closer, and Shorty looked up through the forward port as the rumbling vibration of the washboard track turned into smooth pavement.
“We're almost there Shorty… time to kick Yak awake”, I called across suit comms.
“I'm not asleep” Yak said instantly, though he didn't move even a micrometer.
“Oh sure, Yak”, I laughed, “That's exactly what I say when the captain calls back into engineering.”
“Yes Gene… but I am telling the truth.” he said with a laugh.
At that moment, we drove down a ramp from the brightest day into what looked like a tunnel of the darkest night, though once we flipped off our filters and our eyes adjusted we could see well enough.
A few hundred meters down the tunnel the grounder eased to a stop and the hatch popped. Yak waved us ahead as we disembarked, and followed us as we made our way through the lock into the prep area.
“Should we rent racks for our suits, Gene? That kid on the desk looks alert enough.” Shorty asked.
“Well, it's pretty unlikely anyone would steal a suit here, though we do have some pretty nice gear.” I wasn't kidding either. Our suits were mimetic and plated with mil-spec ceramide. Even with mimetics turned off, we looked considerably more tactical than your average Lune.
Once we rented racks for the suits, and Yak signed for the insurance with a solid look of imminent and terrible physical harm towards the poor kid in case anything were to happen to them, we hopped past prep and into the hab.
I've only been here a few times, but each time it was overwhelming. The upper levels are luxuriously appointed, with glittering restaurants, sculpture gardens, winding walkways through the most beautiful slow moving fountains, layers and layers of shops, malls, casinos, and everything in between.
Inside of 20 meters you might see an elderly dowager dripping with jewelry, a zaibatsu merc scanning the crowd with mirror lenses, or a family from Earth on vacation with squealing, leashed kids floating around. Every square inch of every surface were covered with signs... layers and layers of them, holo-v, screens, lights – all blasting sounds, calling for attention. Up down, and sideways, projected onto the deck and into your eyes - damn near more stimulation than my senses could handle.
We were looking at industry and commerce refined to an impossibly pure form. I could almost smell the money burning holes in pockets.
Yak forged a path for us through the crush of people racing in all directions through the upper warrens. I followed him closely and gave him directions while Shorty coasted on my belt. We landed some style points with a two-bank carom past a thick crowd around some fantastic deal being made, and hooked an escaladder downward. I hadn’t been here in a few years, but I remember being pretty struck by the stark differences between levels as you drop deeper into the hab.
Tranquility is pretty vast. Topside corridors are flashy and glitzy, definitely high-roller country. Expensive wall coverings and cushioned benches scattered here and there await the poor souls who are worn out from an all-day shop. We entered at ground level, a few thousand feet shy of nose-bleed country, but there was no shortage of glitter this close to the main lock.
The people making money down here were spending it by the ton up there and I suppose some of it trickles down through the layers – but not very much, and not very far.
As you work your way inwards and down a few more levels, it becomes more and more seedy, until... well, I've never really had any occasion to go too far, but the stories I've heard aren't that encouraging. Apparently, lower levels are where the worker-bees live, and it can be a pretty rough neighborhood for the gapers to get lost in.
“Gene, where do you need to go first?” Shorty asked as we rode the escaladder down.
“Only a few levels down, not very far. I have an appointment with the engineering firm that develops the gravimetric sensors used by the Survey Service.”
“I didn't know we needed new sensors, Gene...I thought the sensors aboard Archaea were pretty decent”
“Well, they are decent, but the captain doesn't want decent, Shorty – he wants the best. The ones I am looking to buy are supposed to be the very best, with fine-grain resolution at incredible ranges.”
“Gene, Janis is going to love that. With the new railers we installed, she's going to be able to hit marbles at a million clicks.”
I laughed. “She probably could right now …that wouldn't surprise me in the slightest.” She laughed in response, as we hit our level and stepped off to our landing.
The whole atmosphere had changed; it was like we had just walked into a completely different hab. The layered holo billboards, flashing lights and booming sonics gave way to nondescript tech frontage, glassed in waiting rooms with chromium reception desks standing sentry under nicely framed holos of engineering drawings.
The people here were different as well. The corridor was full of suits, white shirts, and geek types, completely different from the blaring pageantry of the upper levels. I was at home here; this was definitely my comfort zone.
“Gene, what are these danger stripes for?” Yak asked, as we moved down the corridor.
“Well Yak, every few hundred meters, there are crash doors that are slaved to pressure circuits – if they flash ambers you better not be in their way, or you will get pulped. The black and yellow stripes here define the squish zone.”
“Is that for real Jane?” he asked, as we moved through another set of doors.
“That's what I understand as well, Yak, though I haven't really ever heard of anyone getting the squish. I just get in the habit of making an extra-long, extra-quick hop to get through. This is definitely not the place to hang around.” she added.
“Looks like we're here folks”, I said hopping to a stop next to a small white sign labeled Tranquilimetrics Incorporated.
As we cycled through the front doors, an older lady with no
-nonsense glasses and a silver bun looked up quickly, as if she was shocked to see us. I guess they don’t deal with actual living, breathing, walk-in customers very often.
“Can I help you?” she asked, squinting at us a bit as if to make sure we were really there, and not a figment of her imagination. A business like this does most, if not all, of their contracts through the RFP process with various fleets and other corporations.
“Hello my dear, my name is Gene Mitchell. We represent the independent Archaea...” I trailed off, waiting for her to finish swiping through her screens.
“An independent?” She squinted at me across her nose. “That's new. Please take a seat while I buzz back for a sales representative.” She nodded sideways towards some white plastiform benches lurking in the corner of the reception area.
As we sat down, I noticed a slight hum from an enviro unit somewhere above the ceiling tiles, but that was about it. This place was silent as the grave. The hiss of the interior door opening just about scared us out of our skin, but the young fellow with a buck-toothed grin that hopped out looked harmless enough.
“Mr. Mitchell? Thanks for stopping by, my name is Preston Jackson, I am a junior sales associate here at Tranquilimetrics. It says here that you are representing the...” he paused, squinting at the screen on his handset.
“Archaea”, I filled in for him. “That's correct.”
“And you’re an independent?” He asked as he walked ahead of us through the reception area.
“No, Mr. Jackson, I am an engineer, by trade.” I said with a straight face. He paused briefly and looked at me sideways. I smiled, and nodded. “Yes, we represent the Archaea, an independent concern.” Shorty punched me in the shoulder while Yak chuckled softly.
“Well, we sure don’t see very much business from indies, Mr. Mitchell. In fact, I guess you’re probably the only one I’ve ever worked with since I’ve been here”, he replied as we walked through a series of offices and hooked into a pretty standard conference room, decked out in wood-tone paneling with a wood-tone table. It appeared that wood-tone polymer film coatings were all the rage down here on Luna.
“And what sort of upgrade are you looking for?” he asked, motioning us towards chairs.
“Well, we are looking to equip her with the very best gravimetric gear we can get.” I said with a smile.
“Well, you've come to the right place, but what sort of setup are you looking for, exactly? We offer a wide range of solutions to meet nearly any budget.”
“We are looking for a sensor model that has the most range with the highest resolution available.” I reiterated, though I knew already this guy didn't yet understand the words coming out of my face.
“Are you speaking in terms of tonnage, for the size of your vessel? Or…” he trailed off, looking at me with his brightest, most helpful face.
“No,” I paused. “I am speaking in terms of the very best gear you have available.” I said, as slowly and carefully as I could, in an attempt to avoid any further confusion.
He sat back in his chair and fixed me with an ingratiating smile that made me glad I had Yak here to punch it for me, on the off chance that it might be needed. It was looking more and more inevitable.
“Sir, I am afraid you may not understand. The best gear we have is usually commissioned by vessels of the Survey Service, or conglomerate representatives. I am afraid it might be cost-prohibitive for your vessel. Now we have a very nice line of civilian or private sector models you may find more suitable for your vessel.”
I took a deep breath, and tried again. “Son, you are correct, we aren't communicating very well.” I took a longer moment to make sure I was looking directly into his eyes, and I had his full attention. “We are interested in purchasing, from you, today, the finest, most cost prohibitive sensor package you currently offer.” I paused again to let that sink in, and right as he started to open his mouth, continued, “actually, if you have an advanced prototype model in late testing that is nicer than what you currently offer, we would pay your asking price.”
I smiled, and added a brief affirmative nod, just in case he still wasn’t clear.
He was the worst poker player I have ever seen. His eyes lit up triple-sevens, jackpot, and death by commission. He cleared his throat and took a sip of water from the glasses on the table.
“I believe I understand, sir. Please wait here a moment while I discuss some options with our owner.”
He stood up and left us waiting.
Shorty clicked her tongue and smiled at Yak and I. Yak poured some more water, and we all enjoyed watching the water slowly spiral down into the tall glass, where it sloshed oddly up against the sides.
“Hello Mr. Mitchell”, a new man said, walking in ahead of our sales rep, followed by a smaller, older fellow with a shocking head of wild hair and a dark scowl – almost certainly an engineer.
“My name is Owen Richards, and I am the CEO of Tranquilimetrics. This is our Director of Research, Tim Ropp.”
“How do you do, Mr. Richards?” I asked, as we shook hands all around.
“Well, we’re doing just fine here, though we’re all a little unclear as to how we can help you. Preston tells us that you want the very best sensor package we offer?”
“Yes sir, that's correct. Even better, if you are able.”
“Well, that's part of why I am stopping by. We don't normally make a habit of selling prototypes, as you can imagine. However, Preston was insistent that we consider it.” He looked at his junior sales rep with a smile, as if to apologize for all this crazy foolishness.
Before I could answer, Mr. Ropp blurted out brusquely through what he assumed was an epic scowl, “What do you need that sort of accuracy for, Mr. Mitchell?”
Owen fixed him with a look that CEOs throughout the galaxy are trained to use in MBA School, or wherever their kind is spawned. “Please excuse Tim here. He isn't too keen on letting his pet projects walk out the door.”
I thought about firing up my own scowl, to let him know I was no pushover, but smiled instead. Today was a good day, a happy day.
“Fair enough, I understand completely.” I paused for a sip of water. “We are an independent survey vessel, and need to make hyper-accurate maps of areas we are contracted to cover. Naturally, the more accurate we can be the better. Our contracts are extremely lucrative, and as this is our livelihood, we want to invest in the very best we can get.”
“The sensors are just half of it Mr. Mitchell”, Mr. Ropp said gruffly. “You need to have a processing core that can handle the data, and an interface that can make use of it. We haven't finished our in-house testing interface yet. It is definitely not ready for the open market.” he looked at his boss, as if daring him to say otherwise. I took the opportunity instead.
“Mr. Ropp, we have a technologist on our crew that can probably build interfaces in his sleep. We are not interested in the software, just the hardware. Our core processor is up to the task.”
I left out the fact that we have two nexus core processors aboard the Archaea, both liberated from million-ton service destroyers, and were looking at placing an order for ten more in about 45 minutes. We will soon have far more processing power than we could ever use.
“That's impossible. We have teams of developers...working in shifts... this is not something you can just cook up! This is next-gen hardware.”
We all laughed, thinking of how fast Janis could write the code for an interface. She probably had it written already. Clearly he didn’t understand the joke, and his face started turning purple.
“Please let me explain… here's the bottom line. We are confident that we can make it work, we are the best in the business, and our technologist is the brightest kid you've ever seen. The risk is all on our shoulders, and we're prepared to put money on the table, today… right now in fact.”
“Well, that is the issue at hand, really”, said Owen. “We are in the business of making money, and if you are prepared to compensate us for the loss
of the revenue this prototype would bring... well, we can always build another one, right Tim?”
The smaller man grumbled, but shrugged. Clearly, he was not in it for the money, but for the pure joy of research at the leading edge of the technology. He clearly was bothered more with the thought of us wasting his work, than using it.
“Well that's great. So let's talk about money. What are we looking at?” I asked with a serious face.
Owen leaned back and looked at the recessed lighting in the ceiling for a moment. “Mr. Mitchell, I don't think we could let it go for anything less than... twenty million.” He looked solemn, and yet at the same time appeared to shrink inperceptibly into himself, as he realized there was no way we were going to pay that much for gear than normally runs a twentieth of that.
“Mr. Richards, Mr. Ropp, this prototype...are you confident this is the absolute best gear available?”
Mr. Owen smiled. “Sir, we are the top dog in our industry. Our top of the line gear is ten times more sensitive than our nearest competitor, and I am not just reciting marketing copy, I am stating fact, lab-tested and verified. Our latest prototype is easily, what… a thousand percent more accurate, maybe more.”
“More, probably,” added Mr. Ropp, “but like I said, we haven't finished the interface. Certainly from what we have seen, it's far beyond anything available on the market today.”
Shorty met my eye and nodded. We were both remembering a discussion Janis and Pauli had with the captain. We already had every last bit of their test data for this prototype, and Janis has already analyzed it to a degree these folks were never going to be able to reach. We already knew we wanted it, and were under direct orders from the captain to get it.
“Mr. Richards, our research has indicated that a technical prototype of this sort is worth between eight to ten million. I am prepared to pay fifteen million for this hardware.” I fixed him with my poker face, set to win. My ace in the hole was that we already knew their investment in the entire program was about a fifth of that amount.