Foyle sat down behind the thick oak desk as Epstein assumed position in the lighter armchair on the opposite side, Larry standing at his left shoulder. Foyle dropped his leather case on the desk as Epstein set his reinforced steel box on the floor. Unsnapping the latches, the RBNL salesman pulled out a sheet of real yellowed parchment and an honest-to-god fountain pen, and placed them on the desk with a flourish.
"Simply sign at the bottom, present the funds, and you will leave Scarborough with one of the most luxurious vessels in the known universe, sah." He smiled.
"Larry, would you...?"
The infamous lawyer leaned over and scanned the parchment. "It's good, Ben. Go ahead."
Epstein picked up the pen, dipped it in the well, drew the pusher and signed, with a flourish, Sir Benjamin Antony Epstein Whitacre.
"The money, if you please, sah."
Benjamin placed the case on the desk, unsnapped the bolts, and pressed his finger against the small scanner built onto the master latch. The case clicked and the lid raised itself, displaying exactly 700 million credits in 100,000 Credit gold notes, used mostly as solid reserve funds for banks, each in its own polycarbonate sleeve. Foyle pulled one out of the case and pulled the edge out of the sleeve, sliding his fingers lightly across the thick weave; satisfied, he placed it back in the case, which he snapped shut and pulled towards him.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Messr. Epstein! The engine is fully fueled and the vessel can be successfully flown with eight men, five for the bridge and three for the engine room, two in a pinch."
"Hm. I'll need to acquire more crew before we leave...not that that's a bad thing."
"Excellent!" Foyle stood and smiled wider. "I'll inform the gentlemen upstairs to release the deadlocks on the control systems." He opened the desk's drawer and withdrew a metal plate, a foot square and an inch deep. He placed his hand on it and muttered a sequence of numbers and Greek letters, "Simply place your hand on the scanner and the ships' computer will recognize you as the captain and owner of this vessel. The computer is voice-responsive and has a holographic Restrict AI Assist with personality elements built in. "
Epstein did so; the plate warmed to his touch, and his wrist-mounted neural net interface beeped, notifying him of new information.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Foyle," he said. "Now, if you'll usher the others off of my ship, I need to conduct some business with Mr. Wiles here..."
Foyle stepped outside and Epstein moved himself to the other side of the desk. "Hm. I like this chair. Thank you for arriving so perfectly on time. Larry, you definitely had the desired effect on the other potential buyers...now, what is it you needed to talk to me about?"
Larry dropped his smile. "Bad news, Ben. You're being cut off. The boss doesn't like this venture of yours, and the executive board agreed to separate you from the division."
"What?"
"I think it's an inspired idea, frankly, but I don't call the shots here. I've been told to tell you to consider the 700 million in venture capitol your severance package."
Benjamin sighed. He was now officially living in the Chinese proverbial Interesting Times.
Quote:Quick comment - we thought that Panzer was the Leader, Swift. -Agmen
As the unsuccessful bidders stood up and began to leave for the airlock, Benjamin Setillo, the humiliated Chief Finance Officer of the Shetland, scowled heavily. He had known that an Interspace representative would be competition, but he hadn't realized that the Countess Dorsetshire had that kind of funding available to her, and Epstein, even with his Interspace fortune, managing to scrape up 700 million credits in the short time it must have been since he'd heard of the repossesion, was insane. Luckily, though, he had a backup plan in his briefcase, which he surreptitiously slid far underneath the great Rosewood table as he stood. It was a shame, but the Shetland's captain - formerly the Caribbean Blue's captain, in fact - had agreed that if the mighty vessel couldn't be retaken then it would have to be disabled and tainted. If it was given a bad reputation nobody would fly it, and it would end up on the market again; buy it back dirt cheap, refurbish it, change the plates, and leave it someplace where it wouldn't be noticed for a few years, then bring it back as a different ship with a bright new future. Either way, losing this ship was not an option; the company wouldn't suffer that kind of publicity, that kind of embarrassment, not now, not ever.
*****
Thing One and Thing Two - Gerald and Jethro Bostock, actually - sat down at the bridge's tactical and helm console. Sam Whitman was at the Comm board; the Nav Board was empty, a position he'd have to fill later, and Epstein was already seated at the conn. Don Vicenzo, the Cow's engineer, was the only man working the engine room at that point - another situation he'd have to rectify. It would be enough, however, to get the ship out of port and to Southampton, where she'd be given a complete workup - all out of Epstein's own pocket, unfortunately, now that he was out on the streets - and undergo some modifications on-site. He expected it to take a few weeks, but it would take that long to select and hire a full crew regardless.
"Sam, wire us into group with the Cash Cow, would you? Let's get this show on the road."
"You got it, boss-man."
The comm light on the right arm of the captain's chair blinked on. "Jack, are we loaded up on your end?"
"The cars are all checked out and the pods are all strapped down. We're all good."
"Roger that. Let's get this bloody thing on the hump. Sam, switch us to Southampton tower."
The light flashed.
"Southampton Tower, this is the Caribbean Blue. We're preparing to depart, is our exit vector to the Tradelane clear?"
"Caribbean Blue, you are all clear, repeat, you are all clear, safe flight, and don't hit anything on your way out."
"Cheers, Tower, Caribbean Blue out."
"Back to the Cow, Sam."
The light flashed again.
"Right, Jack, we're go. Move ahead of us, it will take a moment to ignite the engine."
Ben was about to tell Sam to hook his comm into the engine room when remembered what Foyle had said about the computers' holographic AI interface. They were expensive and required a large, power-hungry array to field one, but they were worth their money most of the time; they were very intuitive, and made excellent shipboard security systems by their very nature. It was no surprise that a vessel such as this had one integrated into its OS. "Computer, activate Restrict AI Interface."
The air in front of the Captain's chair flickered and suddenly produced a standing woman with her hands clasped behind her back; she was translucent pink, with short hair and a shin-length sleeveless dress. "Hello, Captain Epstein," she answered with a pleasant, slightly sultry voice, "What can I do for you?"
"Well, computer, you can start by giving me your designation."
"My core OS is designation MS47AE-RAI with Personality Elements. This vessel's original programmers, however, referred to me as Moira. I'm afraid the former owners were not very good about using my name, unfortunately."
Ben snorted. Personality Elements indeed, this was a peppier AI than he'd ever seen before. "Well, Moira, I'm quite pleased to have you with us. We can continue this vein of conversation later, though; would you patch me into the engine room?"
"Most certainly, sir." She disappeared, and another light on the chair's right arm blinked on.
"Don, how's it look downstairs? Is she ready to go?"
"Engine's in fine shape, boss; is it time to get out of here or what?"
"Quite. Ignite the engine, please."
"Ten-Four. Just let me siphon a charge from the number two fission reactor...aaaand we're go."
The ship shuddered; if one were standing in the observation lounge they would see a blue jet of plasma burst from the back of the equally blue liner; it quickly dissipated, leaving a small, glowing sphere of ionized particles in the mouth of the vessel's fusion engine.
"All systems green?"
"All systems are green, we are go, I repeat, we are go."
"Excellent. Jethro, take us out of dock and put us in the trade lane. We have work to do."
*****
Underneath the great table in the Grand Hall, lit only by the light from the stars streaming in through its windows, a lone steel briefcase sat silently. The small bits of circuitry inside pulsed as it received its signal.
Quote:Quick comment - we thought that Panzer was the Leader, Swift. -Agmen
"Captain, I have intercepted an unauthorized transmission into this vessel," Moira appeared above his right arm once more, as the silhouette of the Ark Royale passed through the bridge window and her translucent body.
"What was it, Moira?" Ben raised his eyebrows.
"A non-complex 36-digit numeric sequence with a port modifier sequence attached, most likely intended for a simple prefabricated circuit. It routed itself through my internal transmission circuit and was rebroadcast through the Great Hall's eighth node. There is now abnormal, non-native digital activity within the Great Hall."
Epstein got up. "Sam, with me, get your implants online. Gerald, take the bridge."
Gerald grunted as Epstein and Whitman strolled into the lift, the latter tapping unknown sequences into the interface built into his left arm and quickly scanning the readouts on his eyepiece.
"Grand Hall. Moira, can you tell me anything about the abnormal activity in the great hall?"
"It is located underneath the port-aft end of the Table. It presents a minimalistic, unencrypted chain of sequences that correspond to a numeric countdown, currently registering at nine minutes and 24.93 seconds. There are no apparent security features or extraneous functions."
The lift doors slid open and the pair darted out towards the Table's port side, both dropping to their knees and rapidly searching. Epstein found the steel case and ripped it out from under the table, slamming it on top and flipping it open.
Inside was a silver sphere, attached to a small box, with glowing, rapidly moving numbers - a countdown. Judging by the three yellow wedges on the side of the metal sphere, that countdown would not end well at all.
Neither of the two said anything. Whitman grabbed the box, opened the back, and removed the battery.
Epstein let out a mental sigh (of course he would never sigh out loud). "That was...surprisingly easy. Moira, who was sitting in this approximate position during this ship's auction?"
"Financial Chief Setillo was seated at the approximate position of the metal case." Moira shifted her hologram, as if she were trying to present a nervous image. "The case appears to contain a fission device; considering its small size, the core is most likely Plutonium. My sensors show that it is no longer armed, please confirm."
Epstein frowned. Incredible. OSC had already tried to kill him and he had barely left port. "The bomb is disarmed, Moira, don't worry. We will be taking care of this shortly. Run a full sweep of the vessel for any more surprises like this." He turned to Sam. "That was far too easy. A bomb that simple? It took you three seconds to take it apart. They've got to have something else going on." He snapped the case shut.
"So, are we taking this to the authorities, boss?" Sam asked, looking up even as he entered more sequences into his arm.
"Bah. Of course not. I'm going to make a more...profound statement. Head back up to the bridge. I'll be in my office making a call."
*****
Epstein sat down in his chair, set the case down, and flipped the terminal up out of the oak. He tapped it one and put in a 27-digit extension.
A tired-looking young woman with long brown hair and green eyes looked up from her desk on the other end. "Hello, Grandpa. How's the weather?"
"Pah. Some cloud cover, a few showers. I won the auction, in case you hadn't guessed by the new comm address."
"Is she as nice as they say?"
"Very, Sarah."
"I need to take a vacation whenever you get it up and running...this job is murder on my health. So, I take it that this isn't a social call?"
"Not quite, I'm afraid. The ship's AI found a bomb on board. Tactical fission device. In all likelihood it was put there by our friends at OSC. You don't happen to have anybody on the staff of the Luxury Liner Indulgence?"
"As a matter of fact, yes, I do...not a lot goes on that ship. It's been out of rotation for the last month-and-a-half, they've been using it as a courier ship. They had to take most of their courier yachts out of service..." she crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it into an unseen bin.
"I'd wondered if you could deliver a statement for me?"
"I can probably arrange that. Where are you putting in to port with that boat next?"
"Just at Southampton. I've got a friend lined up their to do the restoration and expansion there for bargain prices."
"Good. I'll have my contact at Southampton pick it up and deliver it the next day."
"Wonderful! Thank you, Sarah, you make my day so much brighter."
"Of course, Grandpa. Love."
"Love, Sarah. Caribbean Blue out."
*****
Setillo sat down to enjoy a cup of Earl Grey. In about 72 hours, he thought, he should start hearing news about a mysterious tragedy aboard the recently sold luxury cruiser.
Quote:Quick comment - we thought that Panzer was the Leader, Swift. -Agmen
Epstein strolled through the airlock into Southampton's receiving area, Sam and Don on his flanks. He strolled up to the waiting man in the blue overcoat, handing the steel briefcase containing his little surprise off to the Maltese agent. He wordlessly saluted and strolled away, heading for the berth over, which no doubt linked to the Borderworlds Transport he'd seen on his way in. Ah, it was such a nice thing to have a granddaughter in charge of a secret police.
"You still know plenty of good shipmates from your days on the Cromwell, don't you, Don?" he asked as they walked towards the lifts up to the offices "Boys without those moral scruples that might be so problematic on a less unique charter than ours?"
"You know I do, boss, there should be enough of 'em around the yards.," the Kensington native responded "Some of our prospects've been signing up for Her Majesty's Finest lately since they're offering bloody huge incentives right now, but the smarter ones have figured out to stay clear of the war and keep to the docks. How many do we need for a maintenance staff?"
"That depends on what Sam has. Any word from those four boys in Libertonian Norfolk you said you'd call?"
"They're all interested. I told them forty-five thousand a year on a luxury ship with flexible scheduling, and their ears piqued. They've all got good implants and a our kind of work ethic." The cyborg tapped his arm. "Should I tell them to fly out here?"
"Go ahead. If we've got all four, then you'll need to find nine more, Don. Think you can manage?"
"Easily."
"Get on it, then. I need to go have a talk with my old friends in administration about our redesign."
Don broke off as they reached the lifts, heading for the residential quarters, presumably.
They stepped inside the first available lift. "Engineering Administration." He turned to Sam. "Everybody he finds, check them out. I don't want any bloody surprises when our lovely new boat leaves port."
"Understood." The cyborg's implants flashed, slightly discoloring his freckled face red hair. "What are you going to do about housekeeping staff? I somehow don't think you're going to find that on Southampton."
"I have an old...acquaintance serving as a navigator on various Maltese warships. He's from one of those roaming Maltese families that ended up outside of Outcast space - his on Freeport Four. They're not very well-off, but they're very hard workers, and they're very good at this sort of thing."
"Well, that's comforting."
The lift stopped and the door opened, revealing a pleasant starlit corridor, curving around in a circle about the top of the shipyard's administrative section. Classic potted plants sat on either side of every door.
Epstein strolled out and headed down, eying every door's nameplate until he found the one he was looking for - one Anthony McCarthy. He pressed the notifier, and the door slid open.
"Uncle Epstein!"
"Quite, Anthony, how've you been, boy?" he clasped hands with the spindly Irishman. "Moreover, how's your old man?"
"Oh, he's fine, happily retired on a little villa in the Fens. Quite fine, in fact. Sit down! Care for a drink?"
The two sat, and Sam took up a position in the corner. Anthony poured two generous measures of something dark and strong out a bottle on the shelf behind him into a pair of snifters.
"What can I do for you, Ben? I saw my little girl coming into port, I don't suppose it has anything to do with that, would it?"
Epstein took a sip of his drink. Excellent cognac. "As a matter of fact, yes. I didn't know you'd been in charge of a Royal Yacht project, did you design her?"
"As a matter of fact, I did!" he smiled widely. "She's always been one of the projects I'm proudest of. I've never had her come back into port, though; OSC ran off with her and never brought her back. I take it that they are no longer the owners?"
"Seven hundred million credits and my position with the IND bought me one of the finest ships in Sirius."
"I'm glad to hear that...she needs somebody who will take care of her."
"Well, she's not been abused too heavily." Ben sat his drink down. "They don't seem to have put too much work into maintaining her, and they seem to have done some rather haphazard expansion to the pool, but she's so solidly built that she doesn't seem to have degraded much. That AI you installed is a godsend, Moira's kept the ship as up-to-date as she can on her own."
"She's excellent, yes, she was very helpful when we were outfitting her. Made coordination incredibly fast." He flipped open his terminal and shot through a stream of windows to bring up a command prompt, and entered some incomprehensible stream of code. To Epstein's surprise, Moira popped up in the space above Anthony's desk. "Hello, Moira," Anthony said "How have you been?"
"Quite excellent, Mr. McCarthy, it is a pleasure to see you again!" Moira was excited, surprisingly so for an AI. "All systems are functioning at nominal capacity. My internal sensors are still at 96% efficacy, and, beyond some unnecessary modifications to the weapons system, some cosmetic negligence and an engine in need of a tuning, I am fully operational."
Anthony chuckled. "That's good to hear, Moira. I'm glad to see you, too. Now that you have access to my terminal again, we can chat directly while you're in port, and by comms when you're not. Now, if you don't mind hanging in the background for a bit, Ben and I need to talk business."
"Standing by, sir." She moved her avatar off to the side of the desk.
"So, Ben, what are we looking at here? What can I do for you and the Caribbean Blue?"
"I'm looking at this ship, and it's a wonderful machine; that said, I think we can do some interesting things with it. For instance, the barracks in the lower decks - we don't need any of that. This ship will never host a compliment of SAS again, and I can convert that into cargo space. Then there's the power grid. The system itself is sound, but the reactor it's hooked up to is substandard for what I have in mind. The engine casing is different, but the actual core unit is simply a dual-rigged version of a Destroyer reactor. We can improve on that, too. In general, I want to see more cargo space, and I'd like to reinforce the whole thing; I can provide materials for a full Class Eight upgrade, but I think the structure itself can be strengthened. I have ideas; you can tell me how to make it work, and then actually do it."
"What's my budget?"
"Unlimited."
"...Yes, Ben, I think we can work with this."
Quote:Quick comment - we thought that Panzer was the Leader, Swift. -Agmen
Original Proposal for the Expansion of the Caribbean Blue Wrote:
Proposal for the Consideration of Messr. Benjamin Epstein
The Royal Yacht Caribbean Blue, commissioned 808 A.S. by Orbital Spa and Cruise, was in its day an excellent vessel. However, it has undergone multiple third-party operations to change the arrangement of its internal systems and modify its structure. These are unnecessary and injurious to the purposes of the new owner, who intends to employ the vessel in considerably more mobile and unaccompanied operations. As such, a number of changes, including some reversions to their original state, and many more modifications in an organized, concerted fashion to repurpose the vessel for solo passage through the less peaceful ends of the galaxy with more internal space devoted to passengerial content.
The first modification which must be considered before all others is the modification of the base structure. To provide more space (45 meters) the vessel will be extended. The fifth hull segment around the primary reactor will be divided and replaced with a custom cylindrical torus as seen in the Dunkirk-class Battleships - this arrangement has proven to be highly effective. The torus will provide additional raised supports, which will enable the expansion of the removed hull segment, using the same fusion weld and high-grade superalloy that characterizes the original frame of the vessel. The expanded aft segment will then be reattached to the torus and strengthened using the original temperament methods. Internally, the barracks that takes up the lowes two decks will be unnecessary, and the aft four compartments (of the five barracks units installed) will be removed. These will be reinforced to prevent stress on on other components as a result of the removal of the original barracks, and can be outfitted to carry most types of cargo. The modifications to the pool deck, due to structural fallability, will have to be removed The conjoining structure between the forward hull and the primary hull will have to be reinforced; additional hull segments will be constructed using discarded materials from the decommissioning of the recently totaled Destroyer HMS Chichister and placed here. The tubular upper-deck connective will be reinforced and rendered quadrangular, with windows added, to provide a starlit promenade underneath the archway fins. The forward intakes will have a base added spanning eight metersdirectly forward, around the forward hull. The Torus amidships will benfit from the addition of two expansive radial winglets, as seen on the dorsal surfaces.
The next item for consideration is the internal power structure. The power grid on the Royal Yachts are generally adapted from the system used in Her Majesty's warships; this system been neglected, and should be restored and updated to current naval standards.The primary reactor can be enlarged with the addition of the torus,and as such a core system from one of Her Majesty's Gunboats should be employed; the HMS Bloody Eliza was damaged beyond repair in the battle against the Kusari forces last week, but has a functional reactor which can be quickly refurbished and repurposed. The vessel has been decommissioned and transferred to the yard for scrapping, and is thus property of Southampton Administration. The weapons grid is also an item where significant improvements can be made; the original system supports nine mounts that, in accordance with the system's core design from its original form in the Destroyer, can support Class Nine weaponry. While obviously mounting guns that power-hungry on this vessel would be foolhardy, more than nine connections can be supported with this powercore - we propose 14 - and several of them can be enhanced to support a higher weapons class than originally intended.
The final item to be considered is the engine system. While the original, based on the design of the Shire's cores and scaled up, is sufficient, it is certainly a device which can be considerably improved. Once again, we propose to look to Her Majesty's warships for inspiration; the Torus in the Dunkirk, scaled down, has served the power grid well; thus, the engine and its mount would benfit considerably from its example. The Battleship's engine core, scaled down some 45% and simplifying its ignition system, would serve admirably well for a vessel with this capable powercore, large bulk and understressed structure, and the fuel economy could benefit some eight percent.
Similar improvements have been made to the base design for some time, since the classical A-variant model available for public production made its debut, culminating in the D Model currently used by Her Majesty and the Royal Court. This proposal would convert this classical A-model yacht into a vessel near-concurrent with that D-Model, lacking nothing but the garrison, the escort fleet and Her Majesty's heraldry.
A port schematic blueprint is provided:
Estimated cost: X>$9,000x10 ^4
[font=Charlemagne STD]I, [font=Bickham Script Pro Semibold] Sir Benjamin Antony Epstein Whitacre, [font=Charlemagne STD]do hereby accept the proposal as presented by Anthony McCarthy and Southampton Shipyards and release full control of the Royal Yacht Caribbean Blue to Southampton, as well as the sum of $96,347,000 for the purpose of carrying out the contents of aforementioned proposal.
Quote:Quick comment - we thought that Panzer was the Leader, Swift. -Agmen
Epsteins' hands shook slightly as he pulled himself through the port of the Corinthian Gold and onto the blacktop of the Maltese Naval Planetside Authority office. He now remembered just how much he hated - hated - flying through the upper end of the Barrier Pass. The Cardamine-hauling Borderworlds Transport was a fine ship, of course, but directly between Newcastle and Malta was a Kusari war fleet, a bunch of extremely tenacious IMG morons who couldn't keep their hands to themselves, and those bloody Colonials, who couldn't get their act together, make nice with Malta, and engage in the long-thought-over joint operation to exterminate the IMG and split up the acquired territory. Of course, they all had walls of small, annoying ships with those hyper-powered Cruise Disruptors, and those small, annoying ships quickly built up into a problem that made his job very, very difficult.
He waved the attendant over, who saluted. "Welcome home, Senor Whitacre."
"And is it ever so wonderful to be back..." he sighed. "I believe there is a small rupture from a Kusari Destroyer's missile on the aft cargo compartment, if you gentlemen would kindly patch that after you remove the contents of the hold...those are weapons-grade Nuclear Cores, mind you, none of this reactor-grade material."
The lieutenant saluted wordlessly and palmed his pad, signalling a repair crew and a loader, as Ben strode towards the sprawling complex, black suit fluttering in the wind.
After passing through two checkpoints and twenty levels of lifts, he'd reached the uppermost floor and its executive offices, a an all-glass section of the complex where everyone had a window office. Strolling along the glass corridor with the orange fields and rocky foothills in the background was always a breathtaking sight, but certainly not one he hadn't seen before - this was, after all, his second home.
He tapped on the glass of one particular office, a sparse affair with nothing but a glass desk, some plants, a terminal and a chair; the younger woman inside, decked out in a simplified Black Ops uniform with shoulder-length mahogany hair and striking green eyes, looked up from her terminal and quickly stood up, brushing the crumbs from lunch off of her legs and quickly bounded over to the door, which silently slid open, and he was crushed in a surprisingly strong embrace.
"Grandpa!"
He chuckled. "Hello, Sarah. How are you?"
She let go. "I'd refrain from using 'excellent,' but I can't say I can complain about retiring from the 101st. I mean, honestly, I hate flying. My talents are better suited for activities behind the curtain. Shall we walk?"
"Certainly," he smiled as they began strolling along the corridor. "Why couldn't we have this meeting on your normal office, love?"
She scoffed. "Because my normal office is classified, Grandpa, you should know that."
"But it's me! Why can't I see your classified office?"
She giggled and pushed his arm slightly; he barely budged, being a foot taller than she.
"So, was my little package delivered in time for its arrival?"
"Oh, yes. My man gets off just before the Indulgence leaves the Hawaii. The champagne and the card is in Setillo's new office, and the timer is on fifteen seconds from the time the card is opened. We have about 22 hours before it happens."
"I still don't believe how poorly put together that device was. One wonders how OSC didn't sink itself sooner than it did, with that kind of management. Honestly, I'm a bit offended for them to think they wouldn't need any kind of failsafe to make sure I couldn't have it disabled soon enough."
"You know how some of those corporate types are. Not a lick of common sense in them."
"Indeed. How, by the way, are the two persons I'd asked for?"
"Pepe is apprehensive, but not hysterical. I told him you weren't with the 'Chupacabra Men' anymore and he warmed up to the idea somewhat, and has apparently already messaged his mother on Freeport Four. The other one...well...let's just say that she's not the same. She isn't happy on the Sarah Caruso and she's never going to be happy with a desk job, you know her."
"She's still missing him."
"Coming back from the dead isn't much of a victory if that thing you came back for has entered his own private little pact with God."
"Do you still think about Christopher much, then?"
Her answer was immediate. "Every day. But that's different. Chris was vaporized in the explosion of a Mako fuel six years ago. No temporal phenomenon is going to bring him back, and he wouldn't want me to wait for something that will never happen. He was too good for that."
"Fair enough."
They rounded the corner and walked into a transparent bar area, 20 stools long with a surprisingly sparse selection of liquors. The only person present had her back to the hall; she wore the black fatigues of the Ammiraglio's attaches, which made her powder-blue hair, trailing to her shoulderblades, quite shocking. She appeared to be holding a tumbler with some kind of liquid, probably very strong liquid, and ignoring her terminal, which glittered with several dozen flashing memos, which she seemed to be pointedly ignoring.
Ben slid onto the stool next to her as Sarah slipped behind the bar and poured him a generous measure of his favorite Maltese Ale, taking a simple glass of icewater for herself.
"Hello, Mia."
"Hello, Uncle Ben." She turned to him and smiled, slightly glassy. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to make you a job offer, love." He pointed at the terminal and eyed her glass. "You don't seem to happy in your current setting. I thought you might enjoy a change of pace."
She dropped her smile and set the tumbler down. "I'm listening, uncle."
"I've acquired a ship - a Royal Yacht, as a matter of fact. Everything is state-of-the-art, and it's being expanded and refurbished at Southampton as we speak. I need capable crewmen - this isn't a low-level affair like a Train - and foremost amongst my wishlist is a fifth bridge officer to complete the suite. I hoped you might be that fifth. It's a fine ship, large, well-equipped, that can go virtually anywhere. A wanderer. A nice change of pace."
She got up, closed her terminal, and promptly tossed it into the incinerator - one of the few things not transparent on the top floor. "When do I get the hell off of this planet?"
*****
Epstein looked at Ammiraglio Barilla incredulously. "What's the catch?"
"No catch, mi amigo," Santi stared back at him blandly. "Take it. Please. It is yours, Conte Epstein. Just get it out of my orbit."
Ben looked back at him suspiciously. "Don't get me wrong, Ammiraglio, I'm not usually one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but the gift horse is carved out of solid emerald. A yacht? A full-sized yacht, that you just happened to acquire, and are gifting to me?"
Barilla sighed. "It was acquired as the resolution to a political dispute. It was property of your Granddaughter's predecessor, and his dependents were wasting enormous amounts of time and money fighting over it. We repurposed them in the usual manner and their properties were repossessed." The Usual Manner, in such a situation, was to conscript all of the offending parties and send them to different corners of the military apparatus, and relieve them of all their personal property. "All of the liquid assets have been diverted into the budget, but there is absolutely nothing we can do with a ship like that. Consider it a show of our gratitude for your years of service to our nation and her navy, senor."
Epstein sighed. Well, at least he'd be traveling back to port in style. He supposed he could turn it into a floating office or something - moor it on Newark or Waterloo for extended periods of time and build up his own division. Or something. Maybe he could sell it...
...naaaaah. The S.S. William Hill would ride again.
*****
Jonathan Setillo opened the door to his office on the Hawaii. A nice, starlit view of the gas clouds on the far side of the system with the Indulgence slowly drifting past, a comfortable chair, a drink machine, and somebody had even left him a bottle of champagne and a card! What more could a man want?
He sat down and picked up the card. It was pretty, white with a border of violets encircling the words 'Thinking of You, Jonathan..." in bright pink letters on the front. He opened it, hoping the sender was something with breasts. It read on the inside, 'You Amateur.'
"Now what the hell kind of a card is that?"
And then, to his horror, watched as all of the windows on the Indulgence exploded outwards in fiery gouts of white-hot plasma; the fuel system in the rear ruptured and exploded in a massive fireball, vaporizing all of the material around the engine core, as the Liner split in half at the point of the dorsal fins, an arc of plasma issuing outwards as the two halves of ship were pushed apart by the force of the blast.
The card fluttered to the ground, landing on its back and displaying a photograph of Epstein flashing a peace sign next to the bomb before the card burst into flames.
On the bridge of the S.S. William Hill Epstein and Mia clinked glasses of the champagne they'd emptied out of the bottle and downed it in generous measure as the high-speed luxury vessel swung around on autopilot, heading back to Bretonia.
Quote:Quick comment - we thought that Panzer was the Leader, Swift. -Agmen
Epstein and Mia sat down at the elliptical table in one of Southampton's many conference rooms, joining Don, Sam, Gerald, Jethro, and Anthony, some clutching assorted pads, some tapping implants, and all mainlining some kind of caffeine.
"Clockwise, starting with Sam. How are your tech boys?"
"All four are coming in from Liberty. They're all qualified on all small and large ship systems, and I've had any interesting incidences on their records cleaned. We'll see them in three days."
"Cheers. Don, talk to me. How are we on regular crew?"
"I've got eight yes', and four potentials. Of the eight that said yes, six are older ex-naval engineers, and they all have experience on transport vessels. Should I press the other four?"
"The more the merrier. We can afford a few extra if it lowers the strain and improves overall performance. Gerald, Jethro, any issues so far with unwanted interference hankering around my ship?"
"A few reporters. One thug from OSC with some tech. He ought to be waking up in one of the men's rooms on the Hood right about now."
"Good." He turned to his left. "Tell me how she's shaping up, Anthony."
"The reactor's been replaced and the extension is complete. The structure and the bulkheads are all in place, it's fully pressurized, and it's been wired into the current system seamlessly, pardon my trumpeting. I called in the original interior design team; they laid the whole place out and they've been working nonstop to integrate it with the rest of the vessel. The entire lower deck has been hollowed and turned into reinforced cargo space. Moira and I did some calculations, and we determined that we could redesign the structure around the rear to support it more effectively, and streamlined it to boot. We've restructured the power grid as proposed, and we've added the higher-grade weapon mounts. I probably shouldn't ask where you're going to get the hardware for them. And I called up Mander and Co.; they're coming to clean and tune your organ on Tuesday. I have one question, though," he said "Are you going to keep the old name?"
Ben frowned. "That depends. Did you get those figures I asked you to look up for me?"
"The paint costs? Yes. The shade of red you asked me to look into will, for all of the notated exterior segments, run up $114,374.68 credits, not including labor."
Epstein smiled. "Then it's settled. Sam, fill out the forms and re-register this vessel as the Red Royale. She may not be in Her Majesty's employ, but she is certainly still Her Majesty's vessel, not some Libertonian plaything." He put his hands on the table. "That said, did you call the publicist, Sam?"
"Yes I did. We have you scheduled for a meeting in two days."
"Good. Mia, how about our housekeeping and maintenance staff?"
"Pepe's mother accepted the contract." She tipped her mug of cardicoffee back, taking a generous swig. "We have 64 Freeport Four Mexicans as hotel staff. I've called some less-than-savory friends as well; we can have as many Models Who Serve as you want. I think 20 will cover the needs of most demands of our clientele, assuming we're not going to be doubling as a brothel."
"Ptcha. Certainly not." He put his mug down. "Continue your assignments. I need to get back to the Hill to call in some favors and get us port licenses in house space..."
Quote:Quick comment - we thought that Panzer was the Leader, Swift. -Agmen
Epstein gritted his teeth as he signed off on three more port licenses. He'd incorporated his assets as an all-purpose spaceflight company as a loose subsidiary of Interspace; between the five transports, the Cash Cow and the Royale he owned he has a sizable corporate force going for him; his heavy-metals contracts across Bretonia and Liberty would keep his new division self-sufficient for the foreseeable future, with a 1.6% profit margin, but he'd sunk almost 200 million credits of his own money into this liner; it was making a dent in his coffers, and he needed it to start paying out before the end of the fiscal year or there'd be hell to pay. The good news, though, was that he now had port licenses or equivalents for every habitable House planet, and Larry had delivered a golden egg yet again; after the Indulgence was broken and a few well-placed threats of suit and report for intended fraud, OSC has basically fallen into submission; no more intrusions by morons trying to blow him in half, and he could move into orbit around Gaia and Hiran without getting into a staring match with the resident liners. Somehow, he suspected, it wouldn't be the last he saw of Setillo (who would invariably get smarter, though how much and how fast was up for discussion), but it was a respite.
His neural mail pinged; it was the publicist again. She'd put together a preliminary commercial for him to watch. He popped it open, and was bombarded instantly by the images of red, white and gold; the photographers she'd brought along had obviously done some touchups and a lot of it was clearly CG to anybody who'd seen the inside of the vessel when it was lit, but it was very beautiful, very luxurious, and using Foyle to do the voiceover with the organ playing in the background (which, incidentally, was not the organ installed on the Royale, but how would the clientele know that?) was definitely a keeper. It shifted to external views of this ship, slowsly banking and diving around all of the great sightseeing attractions of Sirius, including some which few would recognize - because they happened to be in Borderworlds, Edgeworlds and Barrier spaces, something people would pay VERY highly to see.
He signed off five hundred thousand credits for her work and distribution. The packages he'd designed incorporated a 9-day circuit of Sirius with a fully functional hotel, casino, recreation facility, restaurant, masseuses, and musicians, everything one would expect out of a normal cruise liner, but better and consequently more expensive. Maximum capacity was 690 people; at $9600 credits a person he'd have completely recouped his losses in under two years assuming he had a full load and the heavy metals contracts kept panning out, which he expected they would. This would be very profitable if all went well, and it was a fine ship for his retirement; no more sleeping in the quarters of a Train, he'd be living in an executive suite, with a fine instrument at his disposal, and a place to live out his days quietly. Relatively quietly.
*****
Ben and Anthony stared out past the viewport, watching as several dozen men in spacesuits with long spray hoses slowly crawl their way across the Royale's surface; as they passed she was slowly turning from powder blue to a rich scarlet. The filler plates that had been affixed to the skin to cover Her Majesty's Colors had been removed, and the insets were being refinished.
"She's beautiful," Epstein mused.
"Our finest work, Uncle Ben." McCarthy smiled. "She's essentially spaceworthy again. The addition has been refinished, she's fully stocked; all she needs is her auxiliary staff and she's afloat in style."
Epstein turned. "Listen, Anthony, I don't suppose you've got any vacation days handy? I'd love to have you and your family along for her maiden flight."
McCarthy pulled his pad from his waist and flipped it open. "...As a matter of fact, I have two weeks I can schedule whenever I feel. I suppose I should call my parents..."
"Excellent! I'm certain Moira will be pleased."
Quote:Quick comment - we thought that Panzer was the Leader, Swift. -Agmen