The Hot Gate: Troy Rising III-ARC

by John Ringo

  “Conditions change, sir.” Rebecca Mizell was the Chief Finance Officer of SAPL. But while she was attractive for her age, Tyler didn’t have to worry about his innate tendency to defer to pretty women affect him. He’d hired her because she was a revolving bitch. That was often a useful quality in a CFO whose usual job was telling people “no.”

  “Our associated costs have been going up and up,” Mizell continued. “Maintenance, especially on the older VLA and BDA mirrors, is becoming a major issue.”

  “Then replace them,” Gregory Vance, CFO of Apollo, snapped.

  “That reduces the overall power of SAPL,” Mizell said. “Which we’re constrained not to do now that we have AIs capable of handling the additional complexity.”

  “So we’re the ones that have to make all the money,” Vance said. “And you get to spend it? There’s something wrong there.”

  “That is, however, the nature of the beast,” Tyler said, bending over to tee up again. “There are no other customers for SAPL with the exception of the occasional military use as a weapon. Which you’ll understand we don’t charge for.”

  “I was going to raise that issue, sir...”

  “And I’m going to slam dunk it,” Tyler said, swinging with a grunt.

  “Are you well, sir?” Vance asked.

  The CFOs couldn’t see Tyler’s current position. They were getting a video facsimile.

  “I’m doing some EVA work,” Tyler said. Which was partially true. Certainly EVA if not work. Although this meeting was work, so... “We’re not going to charge the military for defending the system. What we will charge them for is reasonable costs on producing these things. What we’re also not going to do is back door the costs by increasing SAPL costs to pay for that occasional defense. Which is what it looks as if you’re doing, Miz Mizell.”

  “Our corporation is looking at a very poor third quarter,” Mizell pointed out. “Among other things, we again took damage to the SAPL during the battle. The requested increase is, in part, due to that battle damage.”

  “Every corporation on earth is looking at a bad third quarter,” Vance said. “We have a bad quarter every time there’s an attack. Consumer confidence goes down even when we, thankfully in this case, don’t lose millions of customers. One down quarter does not give you license to beggar Apollo!”

  “Define beggar,” Tyler said, whacking another ball. “Damnit.”

  “Sir?” Vance asked.

  “Define beggar,” Tyler said. “What’s the percentage of costs to Apollo of SAPL?”

  “SAPL absorbs ten percent of our monthly payments,” Vance said. “Ten percent.”

  “Which barely keeps us running,” Mizell said. “Among other things, we now have SAPL power in excess of your needs. Sir, if we could just...”

  “We’re not going to stop making mirrors unless it’s really beggaring us,” Tyler said. “And I decide the definition of beggar. I’m shooting for an exawatt. At which point, nobody, not even a Troy class, can come through the gate without saying ‘please.’ What we need is additional customers,” Tyler continued, teeing up. “For SAPL that is.”

  “That’s not m...” Mizell started to say and then checked herself. She knew one of the axioms of working for Vernon which was his saying: If you say it’s not your job it won’t be. “I’m not sure who besides Apollo would use SAPL.”

  “Ah, better,” Tyler said as the ball went through the circle. “Argus, bring in David Skiles, please.”

  “Mister Skiles is in a meeting,” the AI replied.

  Argus had been the main AI for SAPL until a year before when it had suffered the AI equivalent of a nervous breakdown. Running SAPL was a finicky task but there were points at which “finicky” became “obsessive” followed by “paranoid” and “psychotic.”

  Argus had, fortunately, been removed from responsibility for SAPL at the “paranoid” stage. It now handled LFD’s business affairs. Which meant it had to deal with people. Since people were inherently chaotic, it couldn’t get too obsessive and do its job. The therapy seemed to be working.

  It still wasn’t getting close to SAPL control any time soon.

  “I’m his boss,” Tyler said, placing another ball. “Break in.”

  “Technically, as Chairman of the Board...”

  Apparently not working quite well enough.

  “Argus, I will pull your core again,” Tyler said.

  “Breaking in now.”

  “You rang?”

  David Skiles had been the CEO of SAPL for three years now. A former Army general, he knew approximately nothing about lasers when he was hired. What he did know was running big operations. And while SAPL was simple at one level, it was a very big operation.

  “David, Mizell says you guys are going broke,” Tyler said.

  “That’s not quite...”

  “We’re not going broke, sir,” Skiles said. “What’s happening is that we’re exceeding Apollo’s needs thus Apollo is no longer paying for all of our output. That means our cash flow to operations ratio is dropping sharply coupled with some maintenance costs that are starting to creep in more and more. That means that to maintain profitability, we need to either a. stop producing more mirrors, b. increase costs to Apollo, c. find customers for the additional power, d. find some other source of funding. Right now, we want to increase the passed-on costs to Apollo. That’s the simplest short-term solution. At some point we either need to find major new uses for SAPL or stop building mirrors. The really serious maintenance needs are just starting to hit. Since you don’t want any of the VLA taken offline...”

  “I suspect I should just be talking to the CEOs,” Tyler said, taking another swing. He was getting tired which just meant he really need to work on his game. “But I’ll take a swing at it. Vance, what’s the possibility of increasing Apollo’s work in the system?”

  “We’re reaching a point of market saturation, sir,” Vance said. “We’re supplying something like sixty percent of the system’s raw material needs. In orbitals we can supply at a lower cost than anyone else and we more or less have a lock on that market. But that market continues to be almost entirely military based and although everyone wants the system defended, there’s only so much money there. We even supply a good bit of groundside raw materials but that means dropping it into the well which has fuel penalty costs associated.”

  “Didn’t we look at just...you know...dropping it?” Tyler asked.

  “Controlled hard reentry has been looked at and discarded, sir,” Vance said. “There are functional issues with it as well as marketing.”

  “People don’t like rocks dropping out of the sky for some reason,” Skiles said. “Sir, we really need to stop making mirrors. Just a pause while more orbital infrastructure gets built. Probably two years and then we’ll get back in the game.”

  “How long at current rate until you guys go into reverse cash flow?” Tyler asked.

  “By FY 27 Q2,” Skiles said. “At that point, given our projection of Apollo’s needs, rising maintenance costs and mirror production costs we’ll be in the red. We’ll be bankrupt about FY 28 Q1.”

  “Well, we don’t want that,” Tyler said, walking carefully to the side of the shuttle. “I’d have to buy my own company. You’re asking for an increase to...two dollars a terawatt?”

  “That would nearly double our costs,” Vance snapped.

  “I can do basic math, Vance,” Tyler said, mildly. He let the club hang in mid space and reached down to grab the ladder. “What’s that do for you, David?”

  “It will put off the red for two more years,” Skiles said. “But we’ll eventually be back to this point. And that’s assuming no unexpected maintenance costs.”

  “New customers,” Tyler said, grabbing his club and making his way to the hatch. “SAPL and Apollo.”

  “We’re looking at new customers,” Skiles said. “But there’s no much need for an orbital laser except, well, in orbit.”

  “Do you even have a sales force?
” Tyler asked. Getting through an airlock carrying a driver was a pain in the butt.

  “Not as such,” Skiles said. “No. But Apollo is about the only people in orbital manufacturing and mining. Nobody else wants to invest given that most of the stuff is considered a target.”

  “There’s got to be something,” Tyler said cycling the airlock and stepping into the luxurious interior of the Starfire. “Ground side mining? I saw where Georgia...Georgia! Was making a dug in state disaster center. Did we bid on digging it for them?”

  “That would be Apollo, sir,” Skiles pointed out. “They have the mining experience. Even if we did it, we’d need tugs, which are Apollo’s and mining mirrors, Apollo’s, and experts. Apollo. Given ground side environmental regulations, Apollo might need an entire new division.”

  “Vance?”

  “We haven’t looked at it that I’m aware,” the CFO said. “But I’m not in sales. That’s not saying it’s not my job...”

  “Just outside your knowledge base,” Tyler said. “David, I want more customers for SAPL or more work for Apollo to continue to pay for SAPL. Get with Mark and figure that out. I’m hearing a lot of thinking inside the box. We didn’t get to this point by thinking inside the box. I want ground side projects. I want Apollo looking at value added materials. There’s all these kids running around. Apollo toy division?”

  “Toys are normally, well, plastic,” Mizell said.

  “Used to be metal,” Tyler said, sitting down still in his suit. He started to strip off his gloves. “Went to plastic cause it’s cheaper. The way we make metal that might have turned around, who knows?

  “We’re going to have to be boosting a lot of stuff out of the well to support the Fleet. If we’re being paid for that, we can drop stuff down into the well at virtually no cost. But just bringing down metal makes no sense. Chairs? Tables? Buildings? What does earth need? I saw an article in the WSJ talking about the lack of civilian materials. ‘The Affluence Problem’ or something. We lost a bunch of material in the cities and we haven’t been producing any. Cost of new home and business furnishings have nearly tripled compared to pre-war. That’s a market Apollo needs to look at.

  “And, yeah, Vance, before you scream, it’s on Apollo. I want you to look at giving them a hand, David. Do we need a new division? Think outside the box, people. When this war is over, we’re going to need to be poised to go into civilian manufacture. Companies throughout history have screwed that up. Apollo and SAPL aren’t going to. Speaking of SAPL, though.

  “The main reason I want to up the power continuously, just keep making mirrors until the sun is starting to look like a Dyson sphere, is defense. We need to be talking that up and seeing if we can shake the government tree for direct contributions. Okay, we’re beyond what we need for purely commercial reasons. Fine. Let’s see if the government will cough up some money to keep building and maintaining it. God knows they’ve used it enough. Wolf, how’s the Wolf SAPL coming?”

  “Nominal,” David answered after a moment. “We’re continuing to about double power levels every year. And the newer designs should be less maintenance intensive than the early ones.”

  “We were making it up as we went along,” Tyler said. “Staff cuts? I know I just said ‘build a new division’ but do we really need all the people we’ve got? My experience is that when you first go into something, you throw people at it. Then as you get more efficient you can lose some. Maybe we move them into the new division?”

  “I think we’ve been through that period, already,” Skiles answered. “I don’t have any moral issue with cutting people but with the increases you’re asking for in power it’s more like hiring. That’s part of the cost.”

  “Is Starbucks still in business?” Tyler asked. He desperately wanted to get out of his suit but it would be hard to segue while still on the phone.

  “Yes?” Vance answered.

  “They’re big on environmental stuff,” Tyler said. “And knowing them they’re still building outlets. How about ‘all orbital’ espresso makers?”

  “We’d need fabber runs,” Skiles pointed out. “Which are being pretty much consumed by the military.”

  “Figure it out,” Tyler said. “We can free up fabber runs if we sweet talk the right admirals. People need...stuff even in a war. Get with Wal-Mart. Get some civilian production going. Shake the government money tree since we’re beyond commercial use for the time being. Be honest about it and don’t get greedy, Mizell. We’re just asking for money to do upkeep and production past commercial needs. When commercial needs catch up, we drop the amount we need from the government. Apollo and LFD both have lobbyists on payroll. Use ’em. I’m done here. I’ve got another meeting.”

  “Yes, sir,” Skiles said.

  “Outside the box!”

  * * *

  “Hey, kids!” Tyler said, entering Bay Nineteen.

  The view had apparently not palled despite the fact that he was late. Most of the kids were glued to the sapphire, pointing to all the activity that was going on in the main bay. They more or less ignored him.

  “Uh...Mister Vernon?” a lieutenant said. He’d been standing near the door watching the controlled mayhem.

  “The same,” Tyler said, looking around the room. There were two Navy officers, the LT and an ensign, in blues and a couple of pilots in flight suits. Make that a coxswain and an engineering mate from the tabs. Those two were answering most of the kids’ questions. The cox, who was female, looked like she was getting a little ragged. Come to think of it, he vaguely recognized her but he couldn’t place where.

  “I didn’t know you were planning on visiting, sir,” the lieutenant said. “We were getting ready to wrap this up...”

  “I know your schedule,” Tyler said. “I’m glad I’m not too late. I’ll need to interrupt it a bit since I am. Paris, lights up, please. Slowly. If I could have your attention!”

  THREE

  Dana turned away from the latest question as the lights came up in the compartment and was surprised to see Tyler Vernon standing by the bay doors.

  “Shhh...” she said, holding up her hand and pointing to the rear. “I think you want to see this instead.”

  She and the chaperones got the kids pointed in more or less the right direction after a moment.

  “Hi, kids,” Mr. Vernon said. “My name’s Tyler Vernon. Let me just welcome you to the Troy. I’m sure other people have but... Anyway, this thing is pretty cool, huh?”

  There was a polite murmur of agreement. Some of the kids were dumbstruck while others clearly weren’t sure who Vernon was. Or didn’t believe that the richest man in the system was talking to them.

  “Come on over closer so I don’t have to shout,” Vernon said, waving for them to approach. “I was the guy who okayed you kids coming up here. There’s a bunch of reasons for that. I don’t know if you know how you were chosen but it was on a bunch of matrixes. When they pitched this idea to have a naming contest for Station Three I wasn’t too keen. Bottom-line is I name the stations.”

  “Why?” Donny asked. Of course. “I mean, why you?”

  “I came up with the idea,” Tyler said, grinning. “Maybe cause I’m short so I think big. I came up with the idea a long time before anybody thinks, long time before you kids were born. Before that Coxswain there or these officers were born. I was thinking about these when I built my first mirror, when I realized I could build my own mirror on maple syrup money. You think that counts for something?”

  “Sure...” Donny said, nodding.

  “Most of my life is history at this point,” Tyler said, walking over to the sapphire through the cluster of children. “And when I say history, I mean the kind that kids like you study already and will be studying as long as humanity holds onto life. The Maple Syrup War is just history to you kids. I lived it, every damned day.”

  He paused and placed his hand on the sapphire, staring out at the main bay as if he’d forgotten the children behind him.

  “Th
e Maple Syrup war, the Horvath attacks, the Johannsen’s viruses... That’s all history to you kids and so it should be. You’re looking at the future. This is the future you kids are going to inherit and grow. Two million kids suggested names. About half that actually wrote essays. Half were more or less illegible so we’re down to five hundred thousand. There was room for thirty. The top thirty name choices, including the actual choice, were picked out. Then a group of people went over the essays looking for the best ones. You thirty were out of about three hundred thousand kids. I won’t say they were the best on any historical or artistic scale,” Vernon said, turning back around. “But they were pretty good. I read the last thousand. What I was looking for was something the rest weren’t. I used to be a cartoonist. That’s a lot of writing believe it or not. I was looking for...heart? I was looking for passion. I was looking for kids who weren’t doing the well-written essay as an exercise but really wanted to go into space.”

  He looked around at them and you could have heard a bacteria drop in the room.

  “I wanted to see the kids who were going to inherit this in heart and soul and mind,” Vernon said, gesturing out into the main bay. “At least that had a chance. We’re not going to be at war forever. I hope that her generation,” he said, gesturing at Dana with his chin, “will make it safe for you kids to grow up without fearing missiles from the sky. And if they manage it, you should be eternally grateful. That will make it possible for us to really get started on space.

  “There are two terraformable worlds we’ve found so far. There are more systems beyond that we can’t even explore with the war going on. Space isn’t just the final frontier, it’s a frontier that keeps on expanding. I’m old. I mean, I know you think thirty is old. That your moms are old,” he said, smiling at the chaperones to defray the potential insult.

  “That’s how kids think. But I’m old, kids. I may not live to see the end of this war. You will. You’re the torch bearers. You’re the people who are going to grow up and carry us to the stars. That was what I was looking for. The kids who were going to carry that torch. Not just the best argument for Islawanda.”