POV: Mark
The earnings I had made over the course of the past couple of days had elevated me. But it all came crashing down due to the dry spell I was currently in. The three customers I had done work for had been elated with the craftsmanship and low prices on my end. However, there hadn't really been any follow-up customers for the rest of the week.
At this rate, it would probably take me decades before I could even get close to hitting that 500,000 credit annual profit required to open my second LCC store. And that was profit, meaning that I could earn 20 million credits, but if from all that money I had spent 19.6 million on operational costs, I wouldn't be able to expand. It was a smart approach, though ultimately absurd.
I sat back in my chair, the exhaustion of not having shit to do hitting me harder than actual work. It's funny how the human body acted. When you had work and were overworked, you'd collapse, but still get up the next day. I barely even had the energy to leave my bed and drop Lyra off at the Orphanage to play with the other kids. I only did it because she had made extreme progress in her speech, being able to speak fluently now, though with a few hiccups here and there.
I ran my hands over my face, feeling the stubble start to grow back, although I had shaved my beard a week ago. The scent of ozone and clean metal that signified the potential of this business venture now just smelled like expensive failure.
"Hey, Marcos," I called out, staring blankly at the dark outline of the Shepherd docked in the vast bay. "Do me the favor of explaining the definition of insanity."
"Insanity, Mark," Marcos started, "is typically defined as doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results. Based on our current metrics, the repeated action is 'waiting for starship repair clients,' and the expected, yet unachieved, result is 'sustainable high-margin revenue.' We are currently exhibiting signs of organizational insanity."
I knew that Marcos had the ability to lie, but the articulation coming from a synthetic voice emphasized the brutal honesty of what I was doing.
"I need to pivot," I said, standing up and pacing the small office floor. "I need to generate cash flow. I need revenue that justifies the sheer cost of having this state-of-the-art facility."
I walked to the window and looked out at Dock 2, where the massive, compressed blocks of metal lay. They were worth a small fortune and were my key to stability.
"Marcos, what is the maximum resale value of the materials in Dock 2, assuming we sell them in bulk back to the original supplier?"
"Give me a second while I analyze current market data..." He said, allowing a few seconds to go by before he continued. "Given the specialized alloys present in the shipment, we could liquidate the entire stock for an estimated 385,000 credits. That would incur a loss of fifteen thousand credits, but would instantly elevate your liquid capital to 634,695 credits."
I closed my eyes. The temptation was overwhelming. Close the yard, sell the metal, and run escort missions. It was a guaranteed, although high-risk, way to eventually build my capital all the way up to the 750 million required for a full corporation. Even if it would still take me years, maybe decades.
But...
"What do you think will happen when I hit 750 million, Marcos?" I asked.
"You will purchase a Corporate charter and resume the business plan."
"Nope," I corrected, opening my eyes. "What happens is that the moment I open that corporation, I would still have no reputation, no customers, and still have to compete with big hitters like GalNet, AstroForge, SPS, and Stellar Dynamics. All I would've done is spend seven hundred and fifty million credits on a piece of paper, one that's not even physical, only to start the waiting game again, only with more operational bureaucracy."
I knew that the LCC, constrained as it was, was a necessary proving ground. I couldn't skip the step where I earned a reputation. Going on to do mercenary work was unacceptable since it would be too dangerous for Lyra, and I wasn't like her biological father, who would take her into the midst of a fight.
"The goal is not to have 750 million credits, Marcos," I said. "The goal is to build ships and technology. My goal is to build an empire."
I slammed my fist softly onto the new desk, controlling my strength so as not to bend it in half. "This yard gives me the space I need. My printers give me the capability to print complex components for military-grade ships, but the entire station, and by extension, the rest of the Empire, only sees me as the guy who fixes their broken shit at a far lower rate than the other big companies. That's a marketing problem, not a failure of the business model."
Marcos took a moment to process this, the only sound the low, subtle hum of the terminal. "Mark, the core issue still remains the physical location. We are not on a commerce path. No amount of standard advertising will draw starship clients to your raggedy little shipyard when they could just go to any of the other more renowned and bigger scale companies."
"Then I guess it's time for me to change what I'm offering, or rather, start expanding," I decided, an idea forming rapidly in my head, a frantic defense mechanism against the crippling doubt. "How about I stop waiting for starships to break, and on a Hail Mary, choose my shipyard, and instead, make them better. And I use the only customer base we currently have."
"What? The maintenance workers and high-end civilians?" Marcos sounded genuinely perplexed.
"No. The concept of the local client. The individual. The small-time operator," I said. "The guy with one ship who can't afford GalNet's price gouging and whose business is failing because their hull plating is substandard or their engines are running inefficiently. They won't come to us for a hull patch, but they might come to us for a guaranteed upgrade."
I walked to the new terminal and pulled up the design schematic for the custom cooling vent I had printed last week.
"Marcos, how many small transport vessels, freighters, mining tugs, courier ships, dock in the Mechanicus station daily?" I asked. "And of those, how many are owned by independent operators who are not affiliated with a major corporation?"
Data flickered rapidly across the screen. "The daily average over the past fiscal quarter is 3,712 individually owned vessels."
"Hmm," I pondered for a second. "And what percentage of them are using standard, low-efficiency cooling systems that are notoriously prone to overheating?"
"Eighty-seven percent," Marcos replied. "They are cost-effective but suffer from thermal degradation after five hundred hours of flight time."
I felt a smile tug at my lips. I had found the chink in the armor. This was the weakness of the established market. The mass-produced, low-quality, shitty components that were designed to break and needed constant replacement. They solved the problem temporarily, but were never meant to fix it.
"I'm going to stop selling repairs," I stated, tapping the holographic representation of the cooling vent. "And instead, we are going to start selling efficiency, targeting the independent operators with high fuel and maintenance costs. We offer them a component, a single, high-margin, easily installed component, one that would guarantee them a fifty percent increase in thermal efficiency and a corresponding three percent decrease in fuel consumption. We call it the SOW Thermal-Flow Vent."
"Hmm, I see where you're going with this," Marcos said, his voice thoughtful. "And it seems like your brain finally turned on and allowed you to think. The margins would be significant with fabrication cost being approximately 150 credits per unit. We could easily sell them for 750 credits each, and still undercut the competition while offering better quality."
"Yeah. Seven-fifty a pop is the price," I confirmed. "And we are going to start by building a stock. Fuck waiting for customers to come knocking on our door. We are manufacturing a product and bringing it to the customers."
I looked out at the massive piles of metal that I had been debating selling off.
"I need to utilize the massive potential of this yard," I said. "I'm going to prove that SOW is the future of starship tech, even if it means starting small. I have to focus on starships, not everyday household or station appliances..."
After a few seconds of deliberation, I spoke again. "Let's start by converting ten percent of the current raw material into these vents. We will flood the market with quality, high-efficiency components."
"Ten percent of the material will yield approximately 8,000 Thermal-Flow Vents," Marcos stated. "That is seventy-four hours of non-stop printing on all three printers, maybe an hour or two more depending on the complexity of the model you make."
"That seems like a plan," I said. "I'll be returning to the Shepherd and using the simulation room. Prep it for sandbox mode for me. I'll take a few hours to make a new model and test out its efficiency. We will be changing our business model to a manufacturing operation.... Shut down all of the repair advertisements and open a sales channel for SOW Component Fabrication. Start with the Thermal-Flow Vent. And Marcos," I paused, picking up the still-broken atmosphere filtration unit the security tech had left me. "Can you do this repair for me using the drones?"
"No problem, that would be an easy task," Marcos acknowledged my request. "I will make it perfect. Our customers paid for quality, and they will receive quality. I'm just as invested in this as you are, Mark. An AI and a Human being business partners... We won't fail a single customer, no matter how small the job."
'Business partners.' I thought the words over in my head. Up to now, Marcos had just been the AI that had alleviated my loneliness, but I hadn't really seen him as anything other than a smart and annoying piece of technology. Maybe it was time I changed that...
"Yeah, I guess we're business partners now," I said, feeling the tension release in my shoulders. I now had a business model to follow, a new avenue for cash flow.
---
The next week was the exact opposite of what I had previously been experiencing. The yard had finally roared to life with the rhythmic, precise shhh-whirrr of the fabrication process from the 3 printers I had going to work. The sound became the new constant soundtrack of my new life.
I still maintained the same routine I had stuck to. I would drop Lyra off, return to the yard, and then dive headfirst into watching my printers work.... ahem, into the thick of production....
I spent my mornings monitoring the print queues and quality checking the output. The plasma cutter was now repurposed to prep the dense alloy blocks, slicing off precise, manageable layers for the printers. And while the Shepherd was a fantastic home, it had become noisy now.
The rhythmic shuddering of the heavy machinery in the main bay traveled right up the mag-clamps and into the hull. It was something that I didn't mind that much, since it was the sound of progress. Even Lyra, who had started asking questions about "the noisy place," was thrilled.
"Papa, what the noise?" she asked me one evening, nestled under a blanket in my room.
"That's the sound of the ship factory going to work, kiddo," I explained, showing her a simple holographic projection of the printers building a layer. "It's the machines making new parts for ships."
"Big ships?"
"Big, medium, small, one day you and I will be making them all," I replied to her. "But right now, I'm just making them better."
I turned from her and looked up at the ceiling. "Hey, Marcos, are you busy?" I asked.
"I am currently optimizing the thermal exhaust array for the new printer," He replied. "Why?"
"Can you do me a favor and project a simplified model of the Thermal-Flow Vent for Lyra to see?" I asked.
After about a minute, a small, cartoonishly simplified version of the cooling vent I had remade, glowing blue with simulated efficiency, appeared above my hand. Lyra reached out to touch it.
"Papa made this?" she asked.
"I designed it," I corrected gently. "Marcos and the printers are making it."
"It helps ships fly faster?" she asked, her eyes big with curiosity.
"No, it helps ships not break down," I simplified. "Which means the people flying them get home safer."
She nodded solemnly, seeming to accept the importance of the glowing blue component.
"I like it. Jori said he going to be like big uncle Michael. Big uncle Michael strong," she said as she pretended to flex like Father Michael, the director of the orphanage who had the build of a bodybuilder and the demeanor of an angel. "But Papa strong too. I going to be like Papa when I go big," she declared with a smile that could melt the water on an asteroid.
"Of course you will," I said with a smile of my own. "Remember, if you believe it-"
"-I can do it!" she finished with a small shout of victory that was quickly replaced by giggles.
I realized that I hadn't been spending much time with Lyra ever since I started focusing on the business, relegating her to hurried drop-offs and late-night debriefs. So I opted to accompany her to the orphanage again.
We arrived just as the main recreation hall was opening up for mid-day play. Lyra, sensing my undivided attention, was practically vibrating with excitement. As soon as we stepped inside, she abandoned my hand to launch herself into the center of the action, a chaotic swirl of brightly colored blocks, synth-balls, and hyperactive kids.
I retreated to a bench near Sister Elara, who was monitoring the room with the weary, practiced patience of a veteran peacekeeper.
"Mark," Sister Elara greeted me with a soft smile. "It is good to see you taking a proper rest. The children have certainly missed the novelty of your gravity-defying hair."
I chuckled, running a hand over my close-cropped hair. "The gravity's pretty standard on this station, Sister. The novelty, I think, is that I'm not wearing a grease-stained jumpsuit today."
"Ah, but the children adore you. Lyra talks about you constantly," Sister Elara said. "She tells us about the 'magic noises' in your shipyard now."
As we talked, I was able to meet some of the other children Lyra would always refer to when talking to me about her day. Lyra suddenly darted back to my side, grabbing my hand and pointing a stern finger across the room.
"Papa, that Jori!" she announced with the dramatic flair of a prosecutor.
I followed her gaze to a ten-year-old boy with a bird's nest of curly, dark hair that defied the station's gentle airflow. He was currently engaged in a tense negotiation over a giant foam building block with another 10-year-old girl named Mia. He seemed like a good kid, just that he and Lyra would have their differences every once in a while, as most kids would.
Jori finally noticed me, the tall, imposing figure in the corner, talking candidly with Sister Elara, and momentarily abandoned the block dispute. Lyra, seizing the opportunity, dragged me over.
"Jori," Lyra stated formally. "This is Papa. He can make ships fly fast."
Jori stared up at me, his eyes wide and curious. "Is it true you have a real plasma cutter?"
"I do," I nodded. "Though we mostly use it for cutting metal sheets, not… anything else."
"He hits my towers, Papa," Lyra whispered loudly, tugging my sleeve.
"Jori, is that true?" I asked, keeping my tone light.
Jori shuffled his feet, looking suddenly sheepish. "It was an accident," he mumbled. "It was a really tall tower, and I was running."
"Well, maybe you could try building one together next time?" I suggested.
Before Jori could reply, another girl, Chloe, a tiny whirlwind with bright red ribbons in her braids, spotted my arms. My arms, especially in a simple civilian shirt, worked to show off a definition that would fool anyone into thinking I had spent ages fighting and doing heavy lifting.
"Wow! Are you a Krash-Klaw fighter?" she asked, referencing a popular, violent holographic sport.
"No," I replied, suppressing a grin.
"You're big, though! Can you lift Jori?"
Jori, sensing a challenge to his newfound dignity, immediately puffed out his chest. "I'm too heavy! He can't!"
That was all the invitation needed. I eventually got dragged to play by the other kids. The game quickly devolved into a competition of who could ride the "Mark Express."
I started with Lyra, lifting her effortlessly onto my shoulders, giving her a gentle, bouncing ride that elicited high-pitched squeals of joy. Then came Chloe, and Jori, and two more boys named Sam and Finn. I balanced them all, carrying the collective weight of four energetic ten-year-olds and my eight-year-old daughter.
The real show, however, began when they demanded the "high toss."
"Higher! Higher!" Lyra commanded, clinging to my neck.
I looked over at Sister Elara, who was watching from the bench, a look of deepening anxiety on her face. I offered her a quick, reassuring wink.
Taking Lyra off my shoulders, I gripped her firmly under her arms. With a surge of controlled power, I tossed her straight up. The sheer strength required to throw an eight-year-old ten feet into the air is immense, but I executed it with the casual grace of an athlete. Lyra went up, a blur of laughter and pigtails, hung suspended for a moment at the apex of her trajectory, and then dropped straight back into my waiting hands.
I caught her easily, tucking her against my chest. Her face was flushed with exhilaration.
The other children erupted in a unified cheer.
The sisters, however, were not cheering. Sister Elara's hand flew to her mouth, and the younger Sister Anya, who had been chatting nearby, went completely pale, her eyes darting between me and the air. To their dismay, my actions quickly made me a fan favourite amongst the kids.
"Again! Again!" Jori yelled, leaping up and down, completely forgetting his previous feigned adulthood.
I obliged him, then Chloe, then Sam, each toss leaving the sisters incrementally closer to cardiac arrest.
"He's the best! He's faster than the station shuttle!" Chloe declared after her turn.
Jori nodded vigorously, pointing a finger at me with newfound devotion. "He's way better than Father Michael! Father Michael can only lift me to his shoulder! Mark can touch the stars!"
I didn't miss the faint, resigned sigh that escaped Sister Elara. She walked over, clearing her throat with practiced diplomacy.
"Mark, while we appreciate the, ah, enthusiasm of your play, perhaps we could transition to a game that keeps our future starship captains a bit closer to the ground?" she suggested, her voice barely concealing a tremor.
I smiled genuinely. "Of course, Sister. How about a game of 'Don't drop the synth-ball'?"
The children, high on adrenaline and hero-worship, begrudgingly agreed. The rest of the afternoon was spent teaching them complex, multi-person coordination games that required less brute strength and more strategic thinking. But every time I caught a ball or lifted a heavy stack of blocks with one hand, a small chorus of "Oohs!" and "Better than Father Michael!" would inevitably follow.
As the evening meal cycle approached, the children were finally winding down, their energy spent. Lyra was leaning against me, sleepy and content.
"Papa, that was the best day," she murmured, already half-asleep. "You should be a Sister here. You're better at playing."
"I have a shipyard to run, kiddo," I whispered back, kissing the top of her head.
The simplicity of the moment, the genuine joy in the room, the scent of food and recycled air, was a profound balm. The frantic pursuit of millions of credits in sales, the fear of financial ruin, the stress, it all vanished. Here, I wasn't the ex-Navy transmigrating mercenary turned businessman Mark Shephard. Here I was just Papa, the strong guy who could toss them ten feet in the air without dropping them.
I found this little break from work, or lack thereof, to be soul-healing. To me, it wasn't just a break; it was a vivid, essential reminder of why the struggle, the risk, and the long hours in the shipyard were necessary.
But good times don't last, especially when you have work to do. We had already successfully printed 4,000 units, half of my initial goal, and the printers were still running strong, when Marcos had to sour things.
"Hey, Mark, we have encountered a minor setback," Marcos announced. "The original design of the vents did not account for installation variability. The standard mounting bracket has three variant configurations, and our current unit only supports the most common Type-A bracket."
"At least it's the most common one," I frowned. "Can we redesign?"
"Yeah, I can even do it myself, as the change is minor, just a simple modification to the mounting frame of the vent," he stated. "However, this will halt the current production run and require an update to the inventory. Meaning that we will need to scrap the 4,000 units we have already produced and feed them back to the printers for material recovery."
I felt a sharp pain in my chest. 4,000 physical, perfect, high-quality units, representing 3 million credits worth of potential revenue, had to be scrapped. It was a rookie mistake, a blind spot that was caused by only relying on a single schematic source.
"No," I decided. "We don't scrap them. Let's label the existing stock as SOW T-FV Model 1A, exclusively for Type A brackets only. We immediately redesign and start printing the Model 1B and Model 1C variants."
"Understood," Marcos replied. "I'll be doing a quick redesign and a segmented production schedule... Well, that was easier than I thought. I've initiated production of Model 1B and 1C."
The mistake taught me a quick lesson without opening a can of whoop-ass. The market of independent operators was very diverse, messy, and non-standardized. I couldn't just rely on the cookie-cutter clean, corporate schematics. I had to take into account the possible chaos.
---
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