This Royal Navy has expanded and welcomes the following courageous soul: Jimmy Malmberg.
As your Fleet Admiral, I, Crimson_Reapr, welcome you, honor your commitment, and thank you for your service. May our power reach beyond the edges of charted space, and may ruin fall upon all who stand against humanity's strength.
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POV: Mark Shephard
Yesterday had been such a refreshing day. I didn't get shot at, I didn't have to worry about assassination plots, and I simply enjoyed a day with my daughter and then watched her enjoy what was probably her first birthday party in her life.
But the responsibilities of an adult came crashing down on me today since, as soon as the day began, I had to face the multiple meetings Marcos had arranged for me today. I dropped Lyra off at the orphanage, stopping to give Sister Elara a little gift for the orphanage.
I stood in the vestibule of the orphanage, the smell of floor wax and oatmeal hanging in the air. Sister Elara was wiping down a table, looking tired but content to start a new day.
"Mark," she smiled, straightening up.
"Sister Elara," I said, reaching into the inner pocket of my jacket. I pulled out two small, flat data-chips. They were heavy, encased in gold-plated polymer, screaming of value. "I brought something for the orphanage.. to help the kids out."
I held them out. At first, I had just wanted to hand her some of the educational modules that Marcos had indefinitely "borrowed" from whatever secure servers he stole them from. It would have been the easiest thing to do, and it wouldn't have cost me a penny. But after thinking about it, I realized that doing so would probably bring more problems for the orphanage than be of service to them. Though the chances of it getting traces were minimal, the chances of people asking questions on where an orphanage got such high-quality educational modules from were probably. If an audit ever hit the orphanage, they'd be shut down, and Elara, along with Father Michael and the rest of the sisters, would probably be thrown into a penal colony to slave away.
So, I instead purchased them.
The orphanage's schooling consisted of some basic subjects like mathematics, history, sciences, and arts, something that was meant to give the children an all-rounded learning experience that reminded me of school in my previous life back on Earth. It was functional, but it was basic. It was a system that served to create workers, not innovators.
So, if I were going to get them these educational modules, then they might as well have some relation to my current discipline.
The "Elementary Introduction to General Engineering" educational module had cost 500,000 credits. The following educational module, the "Elementary Introduction to Robotics," had cost another 450,000 credits.
My Helix Business account's balance had dropped from 11,278,500 Credits to 10,328,500 Credits in the blink of an eye.
Teaching modules were generally how kids, teens, adults, shit, pretty much everyone in the known galaxy, learned what they did. Sure, academies existed, but they were nowhere near cheap enough to be a viable option unless you got a full-ride scholarship or were aiming for an extremely lucrative position, something that didn't assure you'd be able to climb the corporate ladder. Plus, buying an educational module outright means that you get to keep this module forever and share it with whoever you want. It was a license for knowledge. I was essentially giving the Orphanage a generational gift.
Sister Elara looked at the chips in my palm. Having once been a woman of extreme wealth, she immediately recognized the gold casing, causing her eyes to widen.
"Mark," she breathed, taking a step back. "Those are... those are Class-A modules. Officially issued by the Hollosmith Institute."
"Yeah," I said, taking her hand and pressing the chips into her palm. "Engineering and Robotics. They even have a curriculum that updates every 10 years, ensuring the kids will never be too far behind."
"I can't take these," she said, trying to pull her hand away, but I held it firm. "Mark, the last time I saw these, they cost a fortune. We... we can't accept this. You've already done more than enough for the orphanage and the kids."
"It's not for you, Sister," I said softly. "It's for them. You have kids in here with minds like steel traps, but they're only learning the basics. These modules should give them a trade to start walking on. If even one of them gets good at this, they can get a job at the shipyards starting at forty credits an hour instead of scrubbing floors for five. Hell, they can probably even go farther than that."
"But the cost..." she whispered, looking down at the gold glimmer. "It's too much."
"You know that money has not been an issue for me as of late, Sister," I said. "Take them. It's for the future of the kids. To give those who've already been dealt a bad hand a chance for something greater."
She looked up at me, her eyes searching my face. She was a woman of faith, a woman who believed in the inherent goodness of the soul.
"You are a good man, Mark Shephard," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Your hands may be tainted with blood, but so were mine... You are a good man."
"I'm far from it, Sister," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. "I'm just trying to balance the ledger... that's all."
"The ledger isn't balanced by credits, Mark," she said, a soft smile on her lips. "It's balanced by heart. And yours is in the right place."
She closed her fingers around the chips. "Thank you. On behalf of every child who will use these... thank you."
I nodded, unable to speak for a moment. I turned to the door. "I have to go, business to attend and all, you know the deal. I'll be back to pick Lyra up at 17:00."
"Be safe, Mark," she told me with a smile that I could've sworn reached her eyes.
I walked out of the orphanage and into the cool air of the alleyway and took a deep breath, letting the smell of recycled air and ozone ground me. Good man? No. I was simply trying to survive.
"Ready to move, sir?" A voice came from my left. I turned to see Sergeant Miller, the squad leader of the IUC Marine detail assigned to me. He was leaning against the wall, his helmet under his arm, smoking a lho-stick. Behind him, seven other Marines stood in a loose perimeter, looking bored but alert.
"Yeah, Sergeant," I said. "Let's head back to the shipyard."
Miller dropped the stick and crushed it under his armored boot. "You heard the man. Keep the civies back."
We moved out onto the main thoroughfare. The sensation was strange, since, even before when there had been some fanfare around me for dealing with Thorne, it hadn't been like it was now. Now, I was in a parade with Marines walking with that heavy, rhythmic clanking of magnetic boots, their exoskeleton armor bulky and imposing. The crowd parted for us like water.
I walked in the center, hands in my pockets, trying to look casual, but my height made it look like I was a commanding officer moving with his men.
"You guys don't have to be so stiff," I said to Miller, who was walking just off my right shoulder. "I'm not on some diplomatic summit."
Miller chuckled, a dry sound. "Orders are orders, Mr. Shephard. Admiral Krane said you're a high-value asset. And with recent events, that means we have to treat you like the Governor's daughter."
"Please don't," I grimaced. "And it's Mark. Just Mark."
Miller glanced at me sideways. "Alright then... Mark. You know, the boys were taking bets."
"Bets?" I raised an eyebrow.
"On what really went down in the courthouse," Miller said.
I looked at the squad. They were young, mostly. Grunts. The mix of bravado and anxiety that came with the job was written all over their faces.
"Oh, yeah? What are they saying?" I asked.
"That you ripped a combat droid in half," Miller said. "Private Jenkins thinks it's bullshit. Says physics doesn't work that way. Corporal Vane thinks you're a cyborg."
I laughed. "Tell Jenkins he's right about the physics, but leverage is a bitch when applied correctly. And tell Vane I'm 100% organic. Just... built different."
"Built different," Miller snorted. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Nice kit, by the way," I said, nodding at his rifle. I'd done a bit of digging into handheld weapons after the incident in the courthouse to see if I could buy a hand cannon that could easily deal with simulacrums. "Standard issue M-44 Pulse Rifle? The Mark-IV variant?"
Miller looked surprised and hefted the weapon. "Yeah. Just got it issued last month. How'd you know it was the Mark-IV?"
"The heat sink on the barrel shroud is vented vertically instead of horizontally," I explained, slipping into engineer mode. "Better dissipation, but it has a tendency to jam if you're in a high-dust environment because the vents clog. You keep a cleaning kit on you?"
Miller looked at his rifle, then back at me with a newfound respect. "Yeah, we do. It jammed on me twice during the drills."
"Next time you strip it, file down the catch on the ejection port by about two millimeters," I advised. "It stops the carbon buildup from sticking the slide."
Miller stared at me. "You a gunsmith too?"
"I'm a starship engineer," I grinned. "I might be looking into expanding into the weapons sector and scaling energy weapons to the point they actually become viable. Just some research I did."
The tension in the squad evaporated. I wasn't an anomaly or the 'High Value Target' anymore. I was just a dude hanging out with other dudes who knew about guns. For the rest of the twenty-minute walk, we talked shop. We talked about the terrible food in the mess hall, the shitty pay grades, and the mechanics of orbital drops. By the time we reached the heavy blast doors of Shepherd Orbital Works, I felt like I had turned back time to my time as a cadet, just another grunt complaining about the brass.
"Alright," Miller said as we stopped at the gate. "We'll hold here and provide perimeter security. If you need us inside, yell. Though I can't promise we'll hear you."
"Heh, yeah," I chuckled. "Thanks, Sergeant. Feel free to use the break room in the loading bay."
"Music to my ears," Miller grinned.
I scanned my palm against the lock and waited for the heavy doors to hiss open.
"About time you got back," Marcos's voice echoed from the ceiling speakers. "Your first appointment is in forty-five minutes. I have taken the liberty of remodeling and expanding your office."
"Thanks, Marcos," I said. "How are the nanoprinters looking?"
"Just dandy," he replied. "They're operating at 94% efficiency with nominal heat levels."
I walked past the main office and headed straight for the expanded printer room. I had knocked down a wall over the weekend to accommodate the new hardware.
The three nanoprinters were slowly building up a stack of metal, with drones periodically coming in to pick them up and move them to storage.
All of the nanoprinters moved with the same efficiency. One was working on the Model 1A, another on Model 1B, and the other on Model 1C. I still didn't quite know how Strathari technology did it, but they would consume some regular metal and spit out high-quality metal that didn't even have the same atomic structure as what went in.
I walked over to the inventory console and tapped the screen.
RAW MATERIAL RESERVES: 30%WARNING: RESUPPLY RECOMMENDED WITHIN 48 HOURS.
I grimaced. The Void Vanguard retrofit had eaten a chunk of my metal, and these nanoprinters, though miraculous, did eat up a bit of extra material to complete that metal transformation. I did a quick inventory and checked the stock numbers.
CURRENT INVENTORY:SOW-TFV-1A: 12,000 UnitsSOW-TFV-1B: 8,000 UnitsSOW-TFV-1C: 3,000 Units
"Three thousand 1Cs," I muttered, rubbing my chin. "Well, since they were the ones that took the longest to sell out last time, I don't really have much to worry about."
The Model 1C was the least common among the civilian ships, which is why I had focused on the As and Bs initially to build capital. But from some of the information I had dug up, Military IUC vessels were more reliant on the 1C models.
"Marcos, shift Printer One to assist with Model 1C production after it finishes the current batch," I ordered. I had changed the designation of teh printers because having them numbered was simply much easier than having them named. Printer One was the big printer I had made from the two printers the shipyard had at first, measuring a good 15x15 meters. Printer Two was the 8x8 meter printer, and Printer 3 was the smallest 3x3 meter printer.
"Aye, aye, capt'n," Marcos said. "Rerouting print queue."
I watched the machines for a moment longer, the hypnotic way the vents seemed to just materialize soothing my mind.
"Hey, Bossman," Marcos called out, interrupting my thoughts. "Ms. Elodie Vhane from GalNet has arrived at the front gate. The Marines are checking her credentials."
"Alright," I said, clasping my hands together. "Send her in, I'll be in the office momentarily."
I dusted off my hands and straightened my jacket, refusing to rely so much on the pendant for my everyday life. I cracked my neck and then walked to the office.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting behind my desk.
"So this is part of the remodeling Marcos mentioned' I thought to myself as I lay my hands on top of the slab of polished engine cowling, looking at Elodie Vhane.
She was a striking woman. Short, curly dark hair that framed a face sharp with intelligence. She wore a business suit that was cut in the latest Neo-Parisian fashion, sharp angles and kinetic fabric that shimmered slightly when she moved.
"Monsieur Shephard," she said, her voice carrying a thick, melodic French accent. Although English was the common galactic language, it wasn't the only one. With Humanity's spread throughout the cosmos, there were certain cultures that became more successful than others.
The leaders, and by effect, the only ones footing the bill in galactic conquest were the French, Italians, Germans, Russians, Chinese, Japanese, and the Americans, with the latter being the most successful at conquest. After all, the ideal of Manifest Destiny was sparked once more amongst the Americans, allowing them to have the most success in the conquest of unmapped space... and also being the governing body before the Civil War that destroyed Earth.
The woman in front of me crossed her legs elegantly, holding a datapad. "I must say, your... establishment... is more 'rustic' than I expected for the man dominating the tech feeds."
"Low overhead costs mean better prices for the consumer, Ms. Vhane," I smiled, leaning back. "Can I offer you a drink? Water? Coffee? Tea?"
She laughed politely. "Coffee will be fine, thank you. Black."
An arm, one that I could only guess to be another one of Marcos' new additions to my office, extended from the wall, pouring a steaming cup. She took it, looking at the robotic limb with raised eyebrows.
"Impressive integration," she noted. "But let us speak business. GalNet is very interested in your thermal flow vents. The buzz you have generated as of late due to the efficiency is... significant. Some captains are even reporting fuel savings of eight percent."
"They were designed for a minimum of 3 percent," I stated. "Anything above that is a bonus."
"Precisely," she nodded. "As you may already be aware, GalNet is one of the biggest distributors within the IUC. But I won't bore you with our history and just get straight to the point. GalNet wants to be your exclusive distributor for the civilian sector. We have the logistics, the warehouses, the reach. You build them, we ship them. We wouldn't mind buying your entire stock of Model 1As and 1Bs."
"Exclusive is a big word, Elodie," I said. "It can be quite limiting... and expensive."
"We are prepared to offer volume," she countered. "We want to buy at 400 credits per unit."
I chuckled. "400? Pardon my language, but you've got to be bullshitting me. I'm selling them myself for 750, and I can't keep them on the shelves. Selling it to you at 400 just so you can sell it much higher is an insult."
"750 is a boutique price," she said sharply, her business mask sliding into place. "You are selling to independent captains. GalNet sells to everyone. From fleets of civilian transport, to haulage firms, to planetary and station governments. Yes, we move millions of units, but we also need margin. 400 is our offering price."
"700," I countered.
"450," she stated.
I shook my head. "650."
"Monsieur Shephard," she sighed, putting her cup down. "Be reasonable. With Mr. Takagi, you are a two-man operation. Do you want to spend your days packing crates and dealing with shipping manifests? Or do you want to build? What we are offering you is a way to alleviate the headache you will inevitably come across."
Well... I guess she does have a point. Logistics was a nightmare because I had nowhere near the necessary resources, ships, or people. It was a nightmare I didn't want and was definitely not ready to take up.
"Alright then," I said firmly. "I can see things from your point of view. The current market for other vents is 550 credits. I wouldn't really be taking up much of a loss if I sell it to you at market price, but I'm guessing you're not willing to pay that either. So, how about 500 credits per unit? And I will lower my direct-to-consumer price on my local storefront to 700 credits. That gives you a 200-credit margin to play with, plus volume discounts you can offer. But I keep the rights to sell locally."
She paused, calculating. Her eyes flicked back and forth as she ran the numbers in her head. 500 was still high for a wholesale price, but my product was far superior. She knew that if she walked away, then someone else would take it.
"500," she repeated slowly. "For a minimum order of...?"
"You take 5,000 units a month," I stated, thinking of how much that would allow me to do. "Minimum."
She smiled, extending a manicured hand. "Monsieur Shephard, you've got yourself a deal."
We signed the digital contracts on the spot.
"GalNet is pleased to be in business with you, Mark," she said, standing up. "Our transports will be here in two days to collect the first batch. Please do not disappoint us."
"I don't know how to," I said, a smile spreading across my face.
She left with a sway of her hips and a satisfied smile. I watched the door close and let out a breath. Now THAT was some serious cash flow. It's not really my ultimate goal, but it should be part of what helps me climb to the point where I can fully automate that and focus on ship engineering.
"Bossman," Marcos said. "You barely have time to breathe. Commander Calissa Majors is at the gate. And she's brought reinforcements."
I stood up and walked to the window overlooking the yard just in time to see an IUC shuttle that had just touched down next to the Marines' own shuttle.
Out stepped a woman who looked like she chewed jagged glass for breakfast.
She was tall, easily six foot two. Her skin was dark, rich like mahogany, contrasting with the stark white of her hair, which was pulled back into a severe bun. She wore the light blue dress uniform of the IUC Navy, but she didn't look like a desk officer. She had three jagged scars running down the left side of her face, cutting through her eyebrow and ending at her jaw.
She was flanked by two lieutenants carrying briefcases.
"Too bad I'm seven feet tall," I whispered to myself, remembering a joke from my past life. "Otherwise, I would've asked her for uppies."
When Calissa Majors walked into my office, the temperature seemed to drop five degrees. She didn't sit, choosing to instead stand in front of my desk, inspecting me.
"Mr. Shephard," she said. Her voice was gravelly and commanding. "I'm Commander Majors. I oversee the Logistics Division of the Navy."
"Commander," I nodded, gesturing to the chair. "Why don't you take a seat?"
She sat, her posture perfect. The two lieutenants stood behind her like statues.
"I don't like wasting time, Mr. Shephard," she started. "Some of our higher-ups are impressed with your work on the mercenary Gunship. After undergoing a new inspection, the engineering reports from the Vanguard retrofit were... anomalous."
"Anomalous?" I frowned.
"They were too good," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Efficiency ratings that shouldn't be possible with standard alloys. But the stress tests held, which leads us to believe that you know your tech."
"No shit," I say, stiffling a chuckle, which earned me a raised eyebrow.
"The Navy is looking to upgrade the cooling systems on our Frigate and Destroyer class vessels," she stated. "While the current Mark IV vents from SIGS are... adequate, they, just like every other thermal flow vent, tend to overheat in combat. It's not enough to the point that we would lose ships over it, but it does have its effect on firing power and maneuvering, which may lead to lost ships."
She leaned forward. "We tested a set of your Model 1Cs that we acquired through... indirect channels."
"You mean you bought them from a scalper," I smirked.
"We tested them," she ignored the jab. "They ran 49.73% cooler than the Mark IV vents. In other words... impressive."
"It should be 50%, but they probably fucked up the installation," I murmured under my breath before clearing my throat. "I'm glad to hear it."
"We want a contract," she said flatly. "We want to make Shepherd Orbital Works the primary provider for thermal regulation for the IUC. However, we'll have you working with 4th Fleet to start."
And so my first military contract was about to begin negotiation... Well, technically, second due to the contract with the 7th fleet, which should be here next week.
"I'm listening," I said.
"We will pay 400 credits per unit," she said. "We need bulk."
I shook my head immediately. "GalNet just left. They're paying 500 for the other, more common models. The Model 1C is rarer, which means that there is more demand than there is availability for it. The bracket is also a whole different shitshow of its own that causes much more material to be consumed in comparison to the others, and it takes twice as long to print."
That last part may have been a lie, but the rest wasn't. The bracket did, for some reason, consume more metal and took longer to make than the other two. But it wasn't as exaggerated as I was making it seem.
"This is the Navy, Shephard," she said with a stone mask for a face. "This contract will guarantee you income. Plus, a former operator such as yourself should hold some patriotism."
"Patriotism doesn't buy raw titanium, Commander," I said evenly. "And neither does 400 credits. I've seen resales of the Model 1C that have been listed for 900 on the open market. I'm doing you a great service... I'll let the Navy have it for 480."
Calissa frowned, causing the scars on her face to ripple. "480? You're going to squeeze the taxpayers, Shephard."
"I'm saving the taxpayers the cost of replacing Destroyers," I countered. "What's a Destroyer cost these days? 800 million? A billion? And you're haggling over eighty credits on a vent that keeps it in the fight for longer?"
She stared at me. The silence stretched. The lieutenants behind her shifted uncomfortably.
"You have guts," she said softly. "Or you're greedy."
"I'm a man, Commander," I said. "I have a kid to feed and a business to run. And I know what my product is worth. I also know that SIGS already charges you 600 for the Mark IV. The only reason I'm letting you have mine at 480, which is much better, is because this is a market I'm just stepping into and have no foothold to grasp."
She let out a sharp breath through her nose and looked at her lieutenant. "Is that pricing on the SIGS' vents accurate?"
"It is, ma'am," the lieutenant replied.
Calissa looked back at me as a slow, grudging smile spread across her face. It didn't make her look friendly, but it made her look respectful. "I like you, Shephard. You're an asshole, but you're a competent asshole. And I appreciate what you did at the courthouse. Taking down those rogue battle droids... who knows just how many lives that saved?"
She thrummed her fingers on the desk.
"480," she agreed. "But I need volume. We are refitting the battlegroup before the K-Sector maneuvers."
"How many do you?" I asked.
"Our initial mail inquiry stated that we wanted 6000 units." She said while thrumming her fingers. "Well, I need 6,000 of each model. 1A, 1B, and 1C. Total of 18,000 units. By the end of next week. Nine days."
My mind raced.
I had 12,000 1As. Order covered. I had 8,000 1Bs. Order covered. I had 3,000 1Cs.
I needed 3,000 more 1Cs in nine days. With Printer One rerouted to assist Printer Three, I could output about 400 units a day. 400 times 9 is 3,600.
It would be tight. If a printer jammed, if I ran out of material, I'd miss the deadline.
"Nine days," I said. "That's tight."
"Can you do it?" She raised an eyebrow. "Or should I call Director Vance back?"
"I said it was tight," I said, leaning forward. "Not that I couldn't do it... Send the contract."
Calissa tapped her datapad. "Payment will be given on delivery. Don't make me look bad, Shephard. I'm sticking my neck out for a local contractor over a Core World Corp."
I signed the document on my screen. "Tell the Quartermaster to have the loading bays ready."
Calissa stood up, offering her hand. Her grip was like a vice. "Pleasure doing business. We'll be watching."
She turned and marched out, her lieutenants trailing in her wake.
I slumped back in my chair. "Marcos."
"What can I do you for?" Marcos asked.
"As you heard, we just sold... everything," I said, a smirk spreading across my lips. "We are officially out of stock on As and Bs after these orders fill."
"A good problem to have if you ask me," Marcos stated. "The revenue from the GalNet deal should be 2.5 million credits initially. You add onto that the revenue from the Navy deal you just made, and you get a total projected intake of 11.1 million credits."
"Houston, we have lift-off," I laughed. "Order more raw materials. Triple the order and fill up an entire berth with material. We have to get ready for when the 7th fleet arrives in the system. And see if the shipyards adjacent to this one are willing to rent out for a few months. We might need the extra space for the time being."
---
Book 2 has wrapped up at Chapter 50, which is a short 13,400 words, and Book 3 has hit the ground running with new chapters! That means that you can read up to 27 Advanced Chapters on my Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/cw/Crimson_Reapr
But listen closely now. I'm currently writing Chapter 12, so that number will naturally increase to 28 by the end of the day.
Crimson_Reapr is the name, and writing Sci-fi is the way.