by John Bowers
Montenegro's eyes narrowed, but he didn't speak.
"Just over a month ago," Oliver continued, "I was in New Birmingham. I met with Defense Minister Baker of the Confederacy. He placed an order for a hundred additional fighters. He said they're expanding their fighter fleet."
Montenegro's eye twitched, but still he remained silent.
But Oliver stopped talking and waited, forcing a response.
"And why are you telling me this?" the general asked finally.
"Because those fighters are going to be used against Vega," Oliver told him. "I have it on very good authority that the Confederacy is planning to invade this planet in the near future."
Montenegro blinked twice, then glanced at the guards. With a wave of his hand he dismissed them. After the door closed behind them, Montenegro leaned forward until his face was only inches from Oliver's.
"How do you know this?"
"It's a long and complicated story, sir. But I'm convinced the information is accurate, and I think you know it, too. Don't you?"
The man only stared at him, his jaw working as if he were chewing a troublesome nut between his front teeth.
"So," he said finally, "the purpose of your visit is to inform me that Vega is about to be attacked?"
"No, sir. That was just to get your attention."
"Then why are you here?"
"To give you a fighting chance to defend yourselves. Sir, there isn't a fighter in the galaxy that can compare with what we build. According to my research, your fighter designs are at least twenty years out of date, and most of your ships are at least ten years old. If the Sirians hit you with Lincoln fighters, you won't stand a chance."
"That is not quite accurate," the general said. "We have recently purchased some fighters from a Vegan manufacturing concern."
"And which company is that?"
"NordTek. Right here in Reina."
"I've never heard of them. How long have they been in business?"
"Almost forty years."
Oliver was shocked. How had that one got by him? LincEnt kept files on every fighter manufacturer in the galaxy. Hell, there weren't more than a dozen!
"You say they've been in business for forty years — how long have they been building fighters?"
"About four years, I believe."
Oliver nodded. That explained it.
"I'm sure NordTek is very good at what they do, General, and I don't mean to impugn them in any way, but nobody builds a better fighter than LincEnt. I'd stake my life on that, and I think the fact that Sirius buys them from us should be evidence enough."
"I suppose you want me to buy some fighters from you, then?"
"Yes, sir."
"So you will sell fighters to both sides? No matter who wins, you will make money?"
Oliver shook his head.
"No, sir. The Sirians aren't getting any more ships from us. LincEnt sells fighters for defense, not conquest."
"Isn't that rather naïve, Mr. Lincoln? Does your contract contain a clause to that effect?"
"No, sir. It's just a matter of conscience. For me, anyway."
"Tell me, who did you possibly think the Sirians needed to defend themselves against? Their history has been one of conquest since the Confederacy was formed."
Oliver spread his hands helplessly.
"Sir, all I can tell you is that I was a teenager when LincEnt cut the first deal with Sirius. I can't answer for what we did ten years ago, but this is now, and now I'm involved. And — And …"
He stopped, his throat suddenly constricted. Unexpectedly and uninvited, tears sprang to his eyes. Montenegro looked surprised, but not as surprised as Oliver. Why now, of all times! Horrified, he cleared his throat and wiped his eyes with the back of a hand.
"Are you all right, Mr. Lincoln?"
Oliver nodded. He coughed, forcing the emotion back down.
"I was going to say," he continued weakly, "that now it's personal. If the Sirians do attack Vega, I want you to kick their ass."
Chapter 10
Reina, Vega 3
"This is the SF-31 SolarFighter," Oliver said to the assembled group. "It's the backbone of LincEnt's line, and it's what the Sirians are going to throw against you when they attack."
General Montenegro and four of his subordinates sat along one side of the darkened room, gazing at the hologram that filled the center of the room. The SolarFighter soared and swooped, rolled and dived and fired. It seemed almost full-sized as the test pilot put it through its paces. The observers could see every seam and rivet as the ship was shown both in space and atmospheric flight. The only thing missing was sound.
"Primary armament is a dual 19mm rotating nose cannon," Oliver continued, "rate of fire four hundred rounds per minute. Secondary armament is four .56 calibre machine guns. With all guns firing, you can sustain continuous fire for nine minutes due to the extended magazines and the patented feeding mechanism.
"That's for atmospheric work. For extra-atmosphere combat, the SF carries side-by-side laser weapons in the twelve-megawatt range. That will knock out another fighter, and for larger targets, it can mount up to eight standard deep-space torpedoes, or twenty-four Baby-Shark ship-killers. Those are only thirty-one inches long, but they have thrust capacity for up to a million miles."
General Montenegro stirred. "How powerful are they?" he asked.
"Point zero one five kilotons. They can also be used in atmosphere against ground targets."
Oliver pressed a switch and the holo changed to a design graphic, which he rotated for illustration.
"There are several power plants. For atmosphere, we mount twin tail jets with Mach 4 capability at sea level, with an auxiliary rocket for emergency boost with a two-minute burn limit. For space, we use a single Detroit-Nugent Mark IX ion drive …"
"Warp capability?" Montenegro asked.
"No, sir. But you can slave up to eight fighters to a small tender, include them in the hyperspace envelope, and warp them that way. You can also transport them as cargo on a large freighter, several at a time."
He went on for another minute, rattling off speeds, thrust ratios, and other data of interest to fighter pilots. The officers viewing the demo sat in silence as they tried to take it all in. Oliver fell silent, letting them continue to watch the SolarFighter run through its paces.
"Lights on," Montenegro said, and the room illuminated. Oliver shut down the holo.
He smiled at the assembled officers. "Questions?"
The Vegans seemed to be eyeing one another, as if communicating by telepathy. Montenegro cleared his throat.
"I won't toy with you, Mr. Lincoln," he said slowly. "As you indicated earlier, we are facing the likelihood of invasion. And as you correctly stated, we are almost certainly going to be outclassed in every military sense. My question to you is this: How improved will our situation be if we place an order with you? More to the point, what kind of delivery schedule can you meet, and what training curve are we looking at?"
Oliver nodded.
"Without our fighters, you don't stand a chance. With them, you might face even odds, or slightly better. The Confederacy will face the burden of supply, which you won't. And in sufficient numbers, your pilots will have an excellent chance of taking out their supply ships.
"As for delivery, the minute you give me the word, I can place a subspace call that will spin up our plant to full production. We can turn out five ships a day, and we have about two-dozen already stockpiled. In a matter of weeks I can deliver two hundred fighters, enough to equip several squadrons. After that, we'll continue to deliver until either you are fully equipped, or the Sirians attack and we can no longer get through."
"Training?"
Oliver shrugged. "Assuming your pilots are proficient in what they're flying now, maybe a month in the SF to become proficient in that. My suggestion is that you send a contingent of pilots to Denver, we'll train them there, and they can come back here to train the rest of your men. One of the dangers i
n this undertaking is that the Sirians will see you upgrading your fleet and move their timetable forward. You'll need to be very careful."
"What about munitions?"
"We provide enough weapons for six sorties per ship as part of the package. We can also sell you additional stuff, but I think your best bet is to find someone here on Vega to build it for you. We can provide the specs and some sample items for quality comparison. We own or participate in the patents, so there's no proprietary conflict to worry about."
Montenegro chewed his lip and glanced at his colleagues, then back to Oliver.
"How much is all this going to cost?" he asked.
Oliver sighed, reached into his portfolio, and withdrew a contract. He placed it in front of Montenegro. The general stared at it stonily.
"That's a lot of money," he said. "To build a viable defense force will run into the tens of billions."
"This technology isn't cheap," Oliver agreed. "We're also looking at sizable transportation costs to get the fighters to Vega. I've built in a ten percent discount already, and for every terro you pay in advance, I'll discount twenty percent of that value against future orders."
"What's the current exchange ratio between the crown and the terro?"
"I haven't looked for several days, but I think it's roughly equivalent. Maybe a five percent difference, but I'll waive that."
Montenegro studied the figures in silence for thirty seconds.
"My company is taking a big risk," Oliver said presently. "If you lose the war, you won't be able to pay. By signing that contract, you bind LincEnt to the future of Vega. That's a commitment we'll take seriously. But to be honest with you, I have instructions to get as much cash in advance as you can afford."
The meeting ran the rest of the day. Accountants were called in, tentative figures were agreed upon, and when Oliver left he had a signature in his hand. As he stepped out on the street, he paused to look around and breathe deeply of the fragrant air.
"God damn!" he whispered as the reality of what he'd accomplished sank in. "God damn!"
Denver, CO, North America, Terra
"Good morning, Oliver Lincoln's office."
"Rosemary, it's me. Is the old man in?"
Rosemary Egler sat forward, her lips curving into a smile.
"Oliver! How's it going?"
"It's going great! I got a signed contract."
"You did? My gosh! For how many ships?"
"Two hundred in the initial order, plus as many as we can deliver after that until they say stop. But I gotta talk to the old man. Is he there?"
"He's out in the plant somewhere, but he should be back shortly. Is there a number where he can reach you?" Rosemary wrote it down as Oliver rattled it off. "Okay, he'll probably be back to you within the hour. You sound pretty excited."
"I am. This is more than just a business order, Rosemary. This is for Victoria."
Rosemary was silent a moment. Then she nodded.
"I thought so."
Reina, Vega 3
Oliver was staring out the window of his hotel bedroom, his left hand wrapped around a glass of brandy, when his dad called back. He took the call on the central holo in the main room.
"Ollie! Rosemary said you closed the deal. You told me you wouldn't do that without talking to me."
Oliver grinned, not sure if his dad was baiting him, but determined to keep it upbeat.
"The deal isn't final until you sign it, Dad," he said.
"So what are the specifics?"
Oliver ran through the details he'd worked out with Montenegro and the Vegan Guard staff.
"That includes spare parts for fifty ships," he concluded, "with any additional spares at full price. They're looking at farming out munitions to a local contractor, and I'll be meeting those people in a day or two. You better alert our test crews to expect about a dozen Vegan pilots for training within the month."
"How much cash did you get?" the elder Lincoln inquired skeptically. "You didn't forget, did you?"
Oliver tried to answer with a straight face, but couldn't contain the gleam in his eye.
"A hundred mil went into escrow this afternoon, with another four hundred mil to follow as soon as you approve the deal."
Even over interstellar holo, Oliver Lincoln II's face turned pale. His son laughed out loud at the look on his face.
"Did I hear you right?" Lincoln demanded.
"I don't know, Dad. I said half a billion terros, in cash, up front. Contingent upon your approval, of course."
"Jesus Christ on a hover board!"
"You think you can sell the board on the deal, Dad? Or shall I go back and tell the Vegans we can't afford to do business with them?"
"You're not fucking with me, are you?"
"Hell, no! That's what they agreed to. They're in the hot seat and they know it. I've offered them hope, which is more than they had yesterday."
Lincoln was sitting at his desk, and clearly couldn't find the words. He shook his head several times, and finally looked into his son's eyes.
"Well, Ollie, I don't know what to say."
You might try "Good job", Oliver thought. Aloud he said,
"Is the deal approved? Do I tell them it's a go?"
"Yes, most definitely. If the board tries to fight me on this I'll — hell, I don't know, I'll kick their ass one at a time. Subfax me the contract and I'll have it back with my signature before you see the Vegans tomorrow."
"Consider it done."
"Good. Now, when are you going to get the hell out of there? I want you back here before the shit hits the jet."
"I'm coming home Saturday. Already booked passage on Princess Gina."
"Four more days. Okay, not a day longer. I'll need you here to liaise with the Vegan pilots, so don't take any detours."
"You got it. Oh, and I'll be turning in an expense sheet with my starship fare on it. I suppose you're going to pay it, aren't you?"
"If I see that half a bil in the bank by the time you get back, no problem. If their check bounces, tough shit."
Oliver laughed.
"Okay, Dad. I'm gonna go send the subfax now. Don't go anywhere."
"Call me Saturday when you leave."
"Will do."
Oliver broke the connection and stood in the middle of the room, grinning foolishly. He drained his brandy and turned to retrieve the contract from the Vegan Guard. He felt good, better than he had since before Victoria's death.
The next year or so should be very, very interesting!
Chapter 11
Wednesday, 8 July, 0195 (PCC) — Reina, Vega 3
Oliver met with General Montenegro again the next morning. His dad's signature had arrived via subspace fax and the deal was finalized. The balance of the day was spent in meetings working out details. The first shipment of Lincoln fighters would be shipped within sixty days; in the meantime a contingent of pilots would travel to Denver for training, and LincEnt would dispatch a team of engineers to Vega to oversee the modification of maintenance facilities for the new spacecraft. A great deal of work had to be done, and time was short.
When the last meeting had been concluded, Oliver emerged from the conference room with Montenegro. Waiting for them was a young man in a casual business suit. Almost six feet tall, he was, like most Vegan men, painfully handsome. Snow-blond hair, blue eyes, wide cheekbones. He gazed at Oliver without expression.
"Mr. Lincoln," General Montenegro said, "this is Adam Pedersen. He is the managing director of NordTek Corporation."
Oliver extended his hand. "Oliver Lincoln," he said.
"Please call me Adam."
"Right. I understand you build combat fighters."
"Yes, and I understand you have taken my contract."
Oliver's eyebrows lifted, but Montenegro stepped in.
"Mr. Pedersen, without prejudice, please. Lincoln Enterprises has been building fighters much longer than you have, and we need their technical expertise."
Pedersen shifted h
is gaze to Montenegro. "Of course."
The three men returned to the conference room and settled in.
"Mr. Pedersen," the general said, "your contract with us is still valid. All that has changed is that it is no longer exclusive. We are placing a rather large order with Mr. Lincoln, but we still have plans for you as well."
"I see."
It took five minutes to bring Adam Pedersen up to date.
"We will need spare parts," Montenegro told him. "And we need a source of munitions, which is NordTek's specialty. Mr. Lincoln can provide you with specifications and is prepared to assist you in getting geared up if necessary. I'd like you to spend a day or two with him to make whatever arrangements you need."
Pedersen nodded, gazing at Oliver again.
"If you are free tomorrow," he said, "I can show you our facilities and we can go from there."
Oliver smiled warily, and nodded. "Tomorrow's fine."
Thursday, 9 July, 0195 (PCC) — Reina, Vega 3
NordTek was a fraction the size of LincEnt's Denver plant. It sat on the bank of the Queen River, which flowed through Reina, and was surrounded by parks. Oliver saw only one assembly line and two hangars. There wasn't even a runway; fighters were trucked to Reina Spaceport where they used the Space Guard runway.
Nevertheless, it was impressive enough. The industrial robotics were only slightly inferior to those at LincEnt, and the economy of space was particularly clever. The main part of the facility was dedicated to the manufacture of various explosives for both military and civilian use.
"We don't sell that much product to the Guard," Adam Pedersen told Oliver as they strolled an overhead catwalk. "They use some in training and we replace that, but it isn't enough to keep us open, even with the small subsidy we get from the Monarchy. So we manufacture explosives for engineering and mining as well.
"Four years ago the Guard decided to upgrade its fighter fleet, so we placed a bid and won the contract. But now …" He avoided looking at Oliver, but his frustration was evident.
"Mr. Pedersen …"
"Please call me Adam."
