Shattered Legacy

by Shane R. Daley

  “How’s Sinclair doing?” he asked casually. “Haven’t seen him around the office lately.”

  Shannon kept a brisk pace as they passed the entryway to the living room. “He’s fine. He caught a cold after that last television interview. It kind of took the energy out of him.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “You can see for yourself, Mr. Tyler. He’s in the dining room.”

  She led him into a walnut-paneled room. A large empty fireplace stood against the far wall, flanked by shelves lined with leather-bound books. The opposite wall was windowed, with French doors leading to the back patio. An oval mahogany table large enough to seat twelve sat in the center of the room. A large floral arrangement hid the far end of the table. Tyler turned to say something, but Shannon had disappeared.

  Tyler hesitated. “Sinclair?” he called out. No one replied, so he took a few steps forward and peered around the flowers.

  He froze in shock. The old man was in a wheelchair, dressed in a button-down white shirt. A plaid blanket covered his legs. His chin rested against his chest. His large ears were partially hidden behind thick shocks of white hair that stuck out from the sides his head. His nose, like the rest of his face, was long and thin. Hollowed cheeks and drooping lips only accented his poor condition. Sinclair Dorian had aged years in only a few short months.

  Tyler was still taking in the sight when Dorian's head jerked up. He coughed loudly and looked around, blinking. Through his haggard features, his pale blue eyes still glimmered with a raw intensity. Slowly he focused on Tyler.

  Dorian placed his hands on the arms of the wheelchair and tried to push himself up. After a moment, he grunted and released his grip. “Sorry.” He grimaced and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “My legs are acting up today. Arthritis, you know.”

  Without missing a beat, Tyler stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

  “You too, Samson.” The old man's grip was stronger than Tyler expected.

  Dorian smacked his lips. “Did you watch the launch this morning? It was something, wasn’t it?”

  Tyler shook his head, no. He did not want to admit to Templar Enterprises’ Chairman and CEO that he had not bothered to watch the Naiad launch or even a televised replay. Instead, he changed the subject to the purpose of his visit.

  “I met with the Penraxis attorneys about the factory purchase this morning. The deal fell through.”

  Dorian stared at Tyler, and then frowned. “What happened?”

  “Penraxis was trying to get around posting a legitimate environmental bond. Turned out they owned the underwriting company.”

  Dorian cocked his head to one side. “That was an important purchase, Samson.”

  “I know.”

  “Very important.”

  Tyler pulled out a straight-backed chair and sat down beside Dorian. He folded his hands on the table and focused his attention on the older man. “They lied to us, Sinclair. Their underwriting company was a shell corporation. We were being set up to absorb some major environmental liabilities. I had to protect the company’s interests. What else could I have done?”

  “You could have consulted me about it. You could have used their duplicity as a bargaining tool. Is this what our outside counsel advised? What did Ramona say about all this?”

  Tyler shifted in his chair. Ramona Vargas was Templar's Director of Operations, and Tyler answered directly to her.

  “I didn’t tell anyone what I was going to do.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ramona would have ordered me to go forward with the deal. There was no way I could have convinced her otherwise.”

  “So that gave you the right to - ” Dorian stopped when he saw Tyler’s face tighten. He sighed and nodded slowly. “All right. I trust your judgment, Samson. A bad deal is a bad deal. If it comes down to it, I’ll back you on this.”

  “Thank you, Sinclair.”

  The old man sat quietly for a moment, and then rubbed his left eye with the back of his hand. “Well, maybe in the long run we’ve saved ourselves some headaches.” He sniffed. “Speaking of headaches, have you spoken to Jacob about our financials?”

  Jacob Jackson was Templar’s Chief Financial Officer and an old friend of Dorian's. “We’re scheduled to meet this week.”

  Dorian looked up, smiled, and changed the subject again. “You should have seen that orbiter take off, Samson. I was never so proud in my whole life. After this mission, we're going to have to build a fleet of those ships to keep up with payload and passenger demand.”

  “I'm sure we will. But to be honest, sir, right now we have larger concerns.”

  Dorian rolled his eyes. “Larger concerns,” he mimicked. “You should be excited, son. We just started the biggest thing since - hell, you don’t remember the Apollo missions, do you?”

  “I wasn’t even born, sir.”

  Dorian sighed. “Well, anyway, if you're here about the FBI problem, Ramona already filled me in.”

  Tyler hesitated. He hadn’t expected that Dorian would know about that. There was no telling what Ramona had told the old man.

  “What did she say?” he asked neutrally.

  Dorian shrugged. “Enough. But I'd like to hear your take on the matter.”

  Dorian listened carefully as Tyler explained what had happened that morning. Tyler kept his recollection brief, and tried not to shade the facts with personal opinion. Dorian's blue eyes flashed when he learned that the agents had followed through on the warrant even after Tyler had contacted the U.S. Attorney's office.

  Finally, Dorian asked, “How big of a problem are we facing?”

  Tyler considered the question for a long moment. “Could be serious, but I wouldn’t want to guess until we’ve had some time to investigate the matter ourselves.”

  Dorian shrugged. “Ramona doesn’t seem to think this a big deal.”

  “I'm presenting a full briefing to her tomorrow morning. I'm sure she will better appreciate the situation once she knows all the facts.”

  Dorian made a face. He stared out the windows at the bright outdoors, drumming his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair. After a moment, he glanced back at Tyler. “Why the hell do they care what we buy?”

  “We're looking into that.”

  “We run a clean operation, Samson.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “Tell me we’re not going to get dragged into another lawsuit.”

  “Sinclair, we are in the space exploration business. There are thirteen federal regulatory bodies, two international organizations, and four global treaties that my legal department has to contend with on a daily basis. Believe me; we can handle a few trigger-happy G-men and an Assistant U.S. Attorney.”

  Dorian still looked dissatisfied. “What about those animal rights people? That environmentalist group?”

  Even before the Thomas Dorian Space Center had broken ground, environmentalists had protested the location of facility, claiming that the construction would destroy the ecosystem of several species of rare snakes and cacti. Lawsuits had delayed initial site construction by almost a year, and the ensuing legal battles had become an ongoing nuisance to the company. When Samson Tyler became general counsel, he took a hard line against the lingering suits.

  “I spoke with the EverViro executives. I told them that endangered species aside, the Dorian Space Center was already built, and that our first orbiter had already been through three test flights. I said that we weren’t going anywhere, that they didn’t have a chance of beating us in court, and that we could last longer than they could because our friends have deeper pockets than their friends.”

  “You actually said that?”

  “I also told them that if they continued to harass us, by the time we were finished with them, they wouldn't have the resources to launch a newspaper recycling drive at the local supermarket. Then I suggested a few other entities more worthy of their attention. I gave them a few telephone numbers and poi
nted them in the right direction. It actually worked out well for everyone.”

  Tyler did not miss the irony in the fact that now, only a few days after they beat back the environmentalists, the government starts trouble. Sometimes he wondered if Templar's mission – Sinclair Dorian’s dream - was worth the never-ending struggle.

  He decided to stretch the truth to put the old man at ease. “I have everything under control, Sinclair. We’ll be fine.”

  The old man's eyes bored into Tyler's from beneath his furrowed brow. “I’m counting on you to take care of things, Samson.”

  “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  Dorian gave a grim smile. “Good. Because I don’t want our investors to become nervous. Whatever problems -”

  Suddenly, Dorian lurched forward and broke into a violent coughing fit. He gagged, clutching the tablecloth in his fists. Color drained from his face as he wheezed and gasped for air.

  Shannon was at the doorway sooner than Tyler would have expected. She crossed the room, practically pushing him out of the way to reach Dorian's side.

  “Easy, Sinclair,” she said, drawing close and throwing her arm around the old man to keep him from falling out of his chair. Still hacking with dry coughs, Dorian tried to wave her away, but Shannon carefully eased him back into his wheelchair. His head rolled back and he grimaced. He shifted himself, as if trying to relieve pain in his lower body.

  “Easy, easy,” she whispered soothingly. “Let me get you a pill.”

  “No,” he replied through gritted teeth. “No medicine. I’m fine.” His eyes were slits, his breathing shallow. Shannon picked up a cloth napkin to wipe spittle from his lips.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Tyler asked.

  “You’d better leave now,” she replied.

  “But his -”

  “Leave!”

  Never taking his eyes from the old man, Tyler stood and straightened his sleeves. “He should be in a hospital.”

  “Get out,” Shannon replied without turning her attention from her patient. “He’s had a long day. He’s tired.”

  Tyler was shocked that Dorian's health had declined so rapidly. A withering glare from Shannon stifled his inclination to ask about his condition. He backed away from the table.

  Slowly, Dorian raised his head. His face was pallid and damp with sweat. “Thanks for coming by,” he managed between labored breaths. “I’ll… I'll talk to you later, Samson.”

  Tyler paused at the doorway, knowing that now was not the time to take issue with the situation. Instead, he nodded carefully. “Take care of yourself, Sinclair. I'll see myself out.”

  TUESDAY

  (AP) - The environmentalist group EverViro has withdrawn its federal appeal against Templar Enterprises. EverViro announced yesterday that the organization “had come to acceptable terms” with the aerospace company. – The sale of the Penraxis composite manufacturing division to Templar Enterprises came to an abrupt end Monday. Located in Detroit, Michigan, the facility is one of the country’s largest composite fabrication sites. A spokesperson for Templar Enterprises stated that the company “has reconsidered its commitment to such an investment at this time.” - Samson Tyler, Templar Enterprises’ general counsel, categorically denies a “full-scale” government investigation regarding Templar's business practices. The company’s stock plunges three-and-a-half points in early trading.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Named after his deceased son, the Thomas Dorian Space Center was the realization of a lifelong dream. Constructing the space center from whole cloth had cost industrialist W. Sinclair Dorian nearly two billion dollars. He owned both the land and the buildings, which he leased to Templar Enterprises for a nominal sum. The only expenses to the tenant company were the maintenance and operation costs.

  Nearly a year ago, the company completed construction of its first space orbiter. Charmed with the prospect of a new era of space exploration, and coupled with promotion by Templar’s skilled marketing department, the media had extensively covered each test flight. Large crowds had gathered to witness the takeoffs and landings of the prototype orbiter. The space center itself had become something of a desert tourist attraction.

  That quickly became something else for the marketing department to leverage.

  “One line, please,” the guide called out. “If you wish to take photographs, keep in mind that flash photography is only allowed from the upper level.”

  The metal doors of the doublewide elevator split open and the tour group stepped out. There were small gasps of wonder as the visitors took in the monstrous proportions of the Vehicle Assembly Building. Here, from the top observation deck, they could almost reach up and touch one of the massive support girders that arced across the two-hundred meter ceiling to the opposite wall, where administrative offices sat behind glass enclosures.

  However, the real attractions were the lifting cranes and block-and-tackle arrangements below, and, what seemed to be a mile down, a Templar Enterprises space orbiter, partially hidden beneath a latticework of scaffolding and bright LED lights. Dozens of blue-uniformed technicians busily crawled over and around the craft. Sounds echoed from heavy support machinery that moved along the floor.

  The tour guide, dressed in a navy blue jumpsuit with a Templar flight insignia over her left breast, stood to one side while the tour group gazed over the railing, pointing and commenting to one another.

  “Down below is our second generation orbiter,” the guide explained over the excited buzz. “It’s the Templar Enterprises Space Orbiter, Mark II, or TSO-2. This craft should be ready for initial test flights next month. The TSO-1, which you know as the Naiad, had its rollout last October. Yesterday it blasted off on its first official mission to the International Space Station.”

  The guide waited a few moments for the group to absorb the sight. The hull of the craft, or what could be seen of it, was similar to the original orbiter. It was massive and sleek, with a triangular, wedge-shaped body.

  “This craft is larger than a NASA space shuttle,” the guide explained as she led them across the catwalk. “In fact, it’s larger than a 767 airliner. This craft's dimensions are the same as the Naiad's – two hundred and forty five feet long, with a wingspan of two hundred and thirty eight feet. The Naiad can lift some fifty tons of payload into low earth orbit. This craft should perform similarly. We are already reserving seats for commercial passenger travel later this year.”

  “Can that ship take people the moon?” a young boy called out.

  The guide glanced back. “Actually, a manned lunar mission is on the drawing board. The orbiter’s payload bay could hold what is called a Medium Launch Vehicle. The MLV could launch into space from the orbiter's hold. Then it could travel to and land on the lunar surface. When the MLV blasts off and leaves the moon, the orbiter would retrieve the vehicle from space and return it to earth.”

  She stopped again before a large poster of the spacecraft’s schematics. “If you notice the wedge-shape design, you’ll see that it somewhat resembles a conventional stealth fighter. However, in this case, the shape is considered for aerodynamics, and not for radar avoidance. In addition, the outer shell is not composed of individual tiles, like the original space shuttles. If you were able to examine the ship closely, you would find that there are virtually no visible seams on any of the outer surfaces.”

  The guide turned and motioned to another large poster, one detailing the orbiter's internal schematics. “The TSO is a scramjet, or, if you prefer, a supersonic combusting ramjet. It takes off from our space center runway like a normal aircraft, and scoops up oxygen from the atmosphere to burn its fuel. It also uses that additional oxygen for combustion in space. She's fast, too. The Naiad needs to travel about twenty-five times the speed of sound to reach orbital velocity. If it were a passenger plane, it could take off from here and land in Tokyo within the hour.” She paused for a moment and looked around. “Are there any questions?”

  An older man, dressed in shorts a
nd red T-shirt, spoke up. “How much did the thing cost?”

  “The Naiad cost a little over two billion dollars to design and construct.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Not really. General Motors spends over a billion dollars just to design a new model sedan, and our orbiters are a little more complicated than your typical automobile. We get a lot for our money. Our outsourcing programs force the seven hundred contracting firms who work with us to be very competitive in their pricing.”

  The guide glanced at her watch and motioned the others to follow. Since they were running twice the number of tour groups these days, they were on a tight schedule. “Come this way,” she told the group. “Let's head down to the main level where you’ll have a better view of the orbiter...”

  ***

  From behind soundproofed windows, Senior Flight Director Noah Gettleman stood alone in his office, gazing across the expanse at the tour group on the catwalk. The recent test launches had brought more and more visitors. In the week before the Naiad's mission launch, Gettleman thought tourists would overrun the place. They seemed to be everywhere.

  He exhaled deeply. Then he looked down and focused on the partially-constructed orbiter. In his three-decade career, he had never seen an organization grow as quickly as Templar Enterprises' space program. From the construction of the space center, to the development of the orbiters, they had come so far, so fast. Sinclair Dorian's promise of matching NASA's old shuttle fleet ship for ship was quickly becoming a reality.

  Of course, Templar's orbiters were far more advanced than the original space shuttles. They were amazing machines, true engineering wonders.

  Potential death traps.

  A voice called out behind him. “You know, I had a feeling my morning was taking a turn for the worse when my chief flight director calls me up and demands that I come to his office immediately, if not sooner.”