Alpha Contracts

by Chris Kennedy

  “It’s not Saturday night,” he chuckled.

  “Shhh,” she said as she slipped off her nightgown and began kissing him passionately.

  Sometime later he lay awake staring up at the ceiling. Even after making love, he couldn’t entirely shut his mind off. His mind was awhirl with dollars, Union Credit conversion rates, sales figures, and Tables of Organization and Equipment, or TO&E, for his outfit. He kept playing the last few days over and over in his mind.

  Cartwright’s Cavaliers he thought, and smiled. Somehow calling it Cartwright’s International hadn’t made sense for a contractor that went to other worlds. He’d seen some of the interesting names other units were calling themselves and decided in mid-negotiation that his company needed a little panache. His Guild rep, Freet, made a face when Jim asked to change names, but did it anyway.

  “Cavaliers, eh?” One of his old associates from the U.S. Navy SEALs laughed when he saw it. “You going on a crusade to the stars?”

  “And calling your outfit Battlefrog is more eloquent?” Jim shot back, to a chorus of hoots from a bunch of Marines nearby. Jim thought Cartwright’s Cavaliers flowed off the tongue, and his people liked it as well.

  “As long as you don’t think we’re going charging in on horses,” Ted reminded him at the negotiations.

  He’d spent nine hours on the ship in negotiations with 250 other Humans. It was an eye-opening experience, to say the least. A total of 126 companies registered to bid for contracts. The Mercenary Guild allowed the basic retainer to be paid in eight local currencies; Rubles, Yen, Euros, British Pounds, Saudi Riyals, Swiss Francs, Canadian Dollars, and U.S. Dollars. The last, bitcoins, surprised almost everyone, but Guild Master Cheshk seemed to really like them, for some reason.

  As the bidding began, the first surprise the Humans got was that their low bids wouldn’t necessarily win a contract. The companies needed to give proposed strengths along with their bids. Complicated computer programs evaluated their company’s weight based on the number of personnel, how they were equipped, and battle records. The elite fighting forces were outraged to discover that their battle records amounted to little more than those of the contractors. In other words, nearly zero.

  “Your race has been awarded a combat effectiveness rating of 29,” Freet informed Jim as dozens of people yelled in the relatively small gravity deck.

  “Twenty-nine out of one hundred?” Jim asked. That data wasn’t in the briefings he’d been given. Freet shook her head.

  “No, Commander. Twenty-nine out of 500.”

  “Ouch.” Freet shrugged, an action he hadn’t expected from the alien rat.

  “Such is the nature of these things,” she said. “Proof provides its own success.”

  He ended up pursing a contract titled, “Industrial Retention.” It involved relieving another merc company that was defending an industrial facility on a world 10,000 light years away. The contract that originally bid at 6.2 million ended up at 4.8 million. He negotiated a 10% combat bonus, and a 25% retention bonus. The latter meant if he could hold the objective for 6 months, he got a bonus on top of the total. A sweet add-on, according to Freet.

  “And there is no limit to the combat action bonus,” she pointed out. Jim had noticed that as well, and that it wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Sure, great bonus potential, but it also spoke of ongoing danger the entire time the contract was in place. He lost a little ground in negotiating commercial transport both ways, something he’d noticed wasn’t usually included in the contracts. He dearly hoped the other companies took that into account.

  When he rode the shuttle back to Houston, exactly 100 companies had accepted contracts. Perhaps a fortuitous number. The remainder had failed to reach an agreement they liked, or believed they could afford to risk. It was sometime in the wee hours of the morning when he was finally beginning to fall asleep that Lisa suddenly spoke. He hadn’t realized she was awake.

  “Jim?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Do you really have to go to outer space?” He turned to look at her, only her profile visible in the nearly dark room. He didn’t need to see her in the light. He’d long ago memorized every inch of her face.

  “I don’t need to, no,” he admitted.

  “Then why are you going?”

  Jim thought about it for a moment. His net worth was north of $2 billion. He wasn’t hurting for money. He hadn’t been hurting since his first venture worked out. It wasn’t money that kept him pursuing new challenges, new ventures, new things. It was an inner feeling that he was meant for something great. He’d never told anyone that…not even Lisa.

  “I think it’s amazing opportunity,” he said finally. She was quiet as long as he’d been before speaking again.

  “I’ve never tried to stop you from doing anything,” she said, “and I never will. But please, be careful?”

  “I will, don’t worry.” She drifted off to sleep. He did too, but a while later. Even as he told her not to worry, he was beginning to worry, himself.

  * * *

  “So why are we getting investors?” Ted wondered. It contained a list of nine investors interested in putting money into Cartwright’s Cavaliers, which would arrive shortly. “I thought you were a billionaire.”

  “I am,” he said, “and my entire net worth would come to less than a hundred thousand galactic credits.”

  “Damn,” Ted said, examining the list. “That’s why you have about 50 billion in investment lined up here?”

  “Yep,” Jim said, “and all in precious metals and rare Earth elements.” Ted looked at the list again. “The aliens don’t normally take money.”

  “Sokolov Pogranichnyy Konstern?”

  “Russian mining company,” Jim said with a grunt. “They’ve had a lot of success in mining Terbium.” Ted looked at him sideways. “Rare Earths again.”

  “What’s with the aliens and rare earths?”

  “A lot can’t be mined in space, and they’re rare on more than Earth.” Ted shrugged and started looking at the other list Jim had shown him that morning in Houston. He’d also been playing with the alien slate which had a Tri-V projector. It still sat on Jim’s desk, a strange sort of armored vehicle rotating in space above it.

  “Do they know you’re taking all their money and buying those with it?” he asked, pointing at the vehicle.

  “Not really their business.”

  * * *

  “Good friends,” Jim said to the group of 14 assembled men and women a short time later. Ted was off to the side watching; he’d never seen a room full of billionaires and their handlers. For that matter, he’d never met one until he’d gone to work for Jim Cartwright. “Welcome to the headquarters of Cartwright’s Cavaliers.” There was kind applause. Jim smiled hugely, his eyes running around the room and making contact with each one of them. Ted smiled. His boss was in his element. Jim nodded to him, and Ted took the box he was holding around the room, giving each investor an alien manufactured slate.

  The machine looked shiny and new. Ted knew better. They’d been sent to a company that polished, cleaned, and fussed over every inch of the machines until it looked like they’d been made the same day. The truth was they were hundreds of years old—maybe a thousand—and had been bought as surplus from one of the tramp traders, which had begun to show up on Earth after it became a probationary member of the Galactic Union. Jim explained to Ted that their capacity was close to the bottom of what the alien-made machines were capable. “Kind of like a kid’s tablet computer,” he said with a laugh. However, Ted saw the appreciative nods of the wealthy investors. It was clear that a lot of them hadn’t bought one for themselves yet, or hadn’t gotten their hands on one this pretty. Sure, even an average slate had more power than an IBM super computer, but these were pathetic super computers.

  “The alien slates my XO is passing out are gifts to you, from Cartwright’s Cavaliers, no obligations attached.” Everyone’s eyes got wide as they examined the pristine computers. Even
buying old slates, it was a $60 million investment by Jim. He was playing high stakes poker. “You’ve all read the prospectus, or you wouldn’t be here,” Jim said. “Now, if you will touch that little blue glowing spot on the tablet…” Everyone did, and the tablet came alive with a highly rendered dollar sign. It quickly morphed into a Euro, then into a Yen, and so on. More nods around the room. After it had gone through all the currencies represented in the room, the symbol of the mercenary guild appeared; a triangular symbol with a sword on one side, a laser weapon on the other, coming together at the top point, and a red diamond in the middle with the words “Power” over the sword, “Service” over the rifle, and “Profit” under the diamond. “Here is what we’re going to do together…”

  * * *

  “Pleasure to be involved,” Grigori Pestov gushed a little while later, his Russian accent thick. “I think you’re going to make SPK a lot of money!”

  “And we’re glad to have you aboard,” Jim said with an equally huge smile. Grigori gave a little bow and turned to leave. Ted closed the doors, turned to his boss, and broke into a belly laugh. Jim’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell?” Ted struggled to talk while laughing.

  “You…played…them!” he roared.

  “I gave them a bargain,” Jim replied. Ted dropped into a chair and let his laughter play out.

  “You sold them 25 percent of your net profit, in exchange for an investment of $49 billion dollars!”

  “Even if we never fire a shot, and fail to get the completion bonus, our gross will be $250 billion. They’ll see $62 billion back.”

  “Exactly!” Ted said. “And they went all in for it!” Jim gave a sheepish grin and shrugged. “You could sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman wearing white gloves.”

  Jim snorted and started laughing. “It’s actually a little better than you think.” Ted raised an eyebrow in question. “I had a lot more investors interested. I picked the ones I invited today by the commodities they offered. Those commodities have a higher exchange rate than the average. In short, the goods are worth $49 billion to them, but it’s worth closer to $100 billion to the aliens!” First Ted gawked, then he roared with laughter.

  * * *

  Compared to the process of preparing the investors’ prospectus, meeting with them, and coordinating the logistics of the rare Earths’ delivery, the process of purchasing alien ordinance was easy. The first ship arrived 48 hours after Jim cut the deal, landing at the Houston Starport. All of the combat personnel of Cartwright’s Cavaliers were on hand as the big fat transport opened its bay and lowered a strange looking armored vehicle.

  “What the fuck is that?” Jake asked. As with all the combat contingent of the Cavaliers, Jim had rearranged the rank structure of the combat specialists. Jake, a former Marine corporal, looked decidedly uncomfortable with a lieutenant’s bar on his shoulder.

  “That,” Jim said, “is a Chakook hovertank.” Jake’s jaw hung down. The man had been a close combat instructor in the Marines, and a tanker. The Chakook was low and wide, all slanted angles and control fins. He had to be thinking of the U.S. Navy’s LCAC, or landing craft air cushion. They were huge affairs used to move M1 Abrams tanks from amphibious assault craft to the shore during invasions.

  “Did you say ‘hover tank’?” Jake asked.

  “Yup!” Jim replied. The crane set the tank down, and a trio of Cartwright’s technicians ran over to clamber up onto it. The vehicle was painted in a mottled black, brown, and green camo pattern which was heavily chipped and dinged. The armor had been repaired in numerous places. An alien that looked like an upright-walking elephant trundled down the ramp. It waved with an arm that ended in stubby fingers, while a bifurcated trunk held its jacket closed. Even though the Houston temp was around eighty that afternoon, the Sumatozou looked chilly.

  “I greet you, Jim Cartwright,” the alien said, his grunting language rendered into English by Jim’s translator.

  “And I greet you, Fraskaton,” Jim said, and gave a little bow, which the alien reciprocated. “Did you bring all five?”

  “I did,” he replied. “You have the payment?”

  “We do,” Jim said and gestured to a series of three semi-tankers parked a short distance away. The alien rubbed his huge hands together.

  “Excellent.” It gestured to a pair of reptilian elSha, who trotted over to meet the uncomfortable-looking truck drivers. Each carried a case that no doubt held instruments to test the quality of the tankers’ liquefied gadolinium. Jim’s own techs had already verified the rare Earth solution was of a higher quality than the Sumatozou merchant required.

  “The tanks are a bit more worn than your communications suggested,” Jim said, gesturing as the crane began to retract into the ship. Meanwhile, more elSha were inside the tank with Jim’s people, working to bring the tanks alive.

  “They are in good condition,” Fraskaton insisted.

  “Good condition isn’t the same as nearly new, as you stated in the contract.”

  “Well,” the Sumatozou mumbled, making strange gestures with its trunk, “my supplier delivered them as you see here.” Jim already knew what to expect. The images he’d been given in the message from Fraskaton were easily traced back to the GalNet entry on the Chakook class tanks, last manufactured by the Zuul 200 years ago. “It is a fine tank!” The green and brown stripes on the alien’s tan skinned face moved as its expression changed. Jim played a card.

  “Well, not what we ordered.” He put a portable radio to his mouth. “Johnstone!”

  “Sir,” response from his engineer in the tank replied.

  “How’s it look in there?”

  “Hard used,” the man replied. Jim nodded and turned to the Sumatozou. “You still think we’re paying 150,000 GCU each?”

  “It is what we agreed!” he said, the translator carrying a tinge of anger.

  “We agreed on new.” The alien said nothing. “Very well. Load them back up.”

  “But…” the alien huffed, “but that is not reasonable.”

  “As you say,” Jim said. “The deal is off.” He shook his head and turned to walk away.

  “Wait!” Fraskaton yelled, following after him. “Please, wait. I understand your consternation. What would make the deal whole for you?”

  “50,000 GCU.”

  “What?” the Sumatozou roared in anger. “250,000 GCU for five of these wonderful tanks?”

  “No,” Jim said, and the alien seemed to calm, “50,000 for all five.” The alien bellowed like a bull elephant preparing to charge. It was easily seven feet tall and probably three times the weight of Jim Cartwright, who was six foot, two inches tall—all muscular. It took a step toward Jim, puffed up and arms back. Jim didn’t budge an inch. The alien seemed to deflate slightly.

  “I could, if I were to deprive my children of food for a month, go down to 125,000 GCU each.”

  “20,000 GCU each,” Jim countered. The Sumatozou gesticulated and cried about hardships and poor profits, then offered 100,000 GCU each. Behind the alien, Ted grinned like a Cheshire Cat.

  * * *

  “You should have gone into used car sales,” Ted said as they watched Fraskaton supervise the loading of only two of the three tanker loads of gadolinium. Jim had a slight smile on his face. The tanks were fine for his uses, and he’d still paid more than if he’d had a ship and could have gone out to one of the mercenary worlds like Juplanaskaka. Still, getting the price down to 100,000 GCU each had saved him a cool $2 billion. It was better than he’d thought he could squeeze out of the alien trader. All the alien traders were showing up on Earth thinking Humans were wide-eyed babes. He planned to start ending that belief, and quickly.

  The high-pitched whine from one of the tanks quickly rose to a scream. Jim looked over to where the five tanks sat and saw the armor skirting on one unfolding, then the vehicle rose from the ground. Once the skirt armor finished locking in place, the sound muffled to a whooshing roar. Two arms opened up on either side—unarmed missile pods—and
a platform unfolded in the center rear. It held the tank’s main armament, a 20-megawatt laser. The tanks came with two pallets of guided missiles and magnetic accelerator cannons, or MACs, which could be swapped for the lasers in environments where the lasers wouldn’t function well. The MACs’ firepower rating was less than that of the laser, as well as their range, but they had a significantly higher rate of fire. Johnstone, the engineer, walked over to him, shaking his head.

  “Got the first one running,” he said.

  “I noticed,” Jim replied. “Loud.”

  “Yeah, the sound baffling is worn out.”

  “What about the rest?”

  “One of them has yellow shit all over the controls. Guessing by the patched armor over the crew space, I’d say some aliens’ guts were splattered all over the cockpit.” Jake, who was standing nearby reading up on the Chakook’s specs from a slate, looked up in alarm.

  “Besides that?”

  “Well,” Johnstone went on, “there’s a laundry list of shit that doesn’t work.” He popped a stick of gum in his mouth. “Nothing we can’t fix. I have a couple of men working to figure out how old that F11 stuff is. The fusion reactor was showing nominal.” If anything, Jake looked more alarmed.

  “Fusion?!” he blurted. “Like the bomb?”

  “Fusion,” Johnstone agreed, “but not quite like the bomb.”

  “Damn thing has RCS thrusters!” Slim was laughing nearby, examining one of the tanks. “More like a spaceship than a tank.”

  “Why a hover tank?” Jake finally asked a few hours later as the last of the five Chakook lifted off the ground and hovered over to the transport trucks. “I looked at some of that technical data. They’ve got tracked and wheeled tanks. I don’t understand…why hover?” Jim listed a few points on his fingers.