OLYMPUS, MARS
Raytech Corporation’s headquarters stood proudly on the Martian landscape as a testament to undying human hubris: a gigantic domed campus of breathable atmosphere surrounded by the red sands of the hostile planet. A colossal oasis that thumbed its nose at the unforgiving red desert.
This slice of Terra did not contain any industrial facility; instead, tens of thousands of the best and brightest Terrans lived here. They were here conducting advanced research, developing novel products, and shaking hands with a diverse selection of clientele, from the most honorable charity to the shadiest criminals in Sol.
For the business of Raytech was war, and business was booming.
According to the company mythos, it made its debut over a century ago, making radars for the planetary conflicts in the Nations Era, before moving into the missiles business. Of all the similar companies of the era, it survived Terra Corp’s attempts at mergers and hostile takeovers the longest. When Terra Corp became the Terran Republic, the rebellious subsidiary — like many others — quickly spun off into its own independent corporation again.
Fast forward a few years. Raytech moved into the warship manufacturing industry, and soon it was churning out product lines in every ship classification of the Terran Republic Navy. From the largest flag fleet carrier to the smallest logistic shuttle to railgun ammunition, Raytech had a solution for anyone who can pay in cold, hard Republic credits.
So when the Terran Republic’s most powerful Senators flew off to Olympus for discussions on their latest developments instead of inviting its executives to Luna, nobody batted an eye to business as usual.
“Senator Reis, thank you for making the long journey from Luna.”
“It was no big deal, Ms. Wright. Besides, my grandson has been clamoring for a MarsLand theme park trip for months.”
Martina Wright was a dynamic woman, barely into her forties. Time seemed to dance around her rather than leave its marks. She still had that youthful spark and glimmer in her bright hazel eyes, and those same eyes were framed by the waves of her wavy, brown hair. Her subtly genetically modified face carried an air of dignity with its natural-looking beauty, along with an openness that could not help but put people at ease.
Across from her, lounging comfortably on the plush, body-contouring couch, was Senator Marcos Reis. In contrast to Martina’s youthful brown, his hair had surrendered to shades of distinguished gray, though it still retained a few strands of rebellious jet-black here and there. The sixty-five-year-old politician projected respectability and stability in his presence. When he spoke, his words were tinged with a weighty accent, each syllable reassuring and final as if carved into a meteorite.
“Ah, so stopping by my office is just a pitstop on your grand Martian adventure, huh,” Martina smiled, putting her dimples on display.
“Exactly,” Reis chuckled, enjoying the playful banter. “But let me say, the news pictures really don’t capture the jaw-dropping splendor of your Olympus campus. It’s always a visual feast coming here.”
“I appreciate that, Senator. I know you’re itching to rejoin your family’s Martian escapades, so let’s keep this brief. What can Raytech do for you and your district?”
“Yes, and I am sure your time is very valuable too, so allow me to cut to the chase. My constituents have been flooding my comms about whispers of a brand-new production line for the Navy’s next-gen ships coming out of Olympus and Ceres.”
Martina feigned being impressed. “You’ve got good intel, Senator. We are building a new Ceres line to accommodate an expected increase in orders as a result of all this trouble with the Znosians. We’re moving forward with the Python combat variants of the three experimental recon ships you may have heard of on the news recently. These aren’t prototypes or LRP anymore. These will be full-rate production lines. No shortcuts, no compromises. We are in this for the long haul. Care to see the brochures?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and anticipation.
“Go ahead.”
Martina pulled up the silhouette of the combat vessel with the office’s holographic projector, laced with its highly classified technologies. “These ships were based on the new Republic Navy requirements with non-Terran adversaries in mind. Plus, we had years’ worth of input from the crew of the Three Rivers… As you can see, the Navy is pivoting away from its counterinsurgency demands into a pure fleet battles doctrine. The Python warships were designed to be maximally lethal and stealthy, compromising neither. Our engineers’ motto for this clean sheet design was literally: not a pound for orbit-to-ground.”
“Fantastic, and I’m proud to say that some people from my district were involved in its design too. In fact, one of those experimental Three Rivers ships was named after a river that runs right through my district! Anyway, I think you will agree with me that being proactive is the right attitude to go about handling this situation. Those Malgeir liquidation camps they’ve been talking about on the news. Unbelievable! Just awful!”
Martina nodded, her eyes reflecting practiced sympathy. “That is also our company’s position, Senator Reis. That’s why for every credit in profit we make from now until the end of this war, we commit to donating ten percent of it to a humanitarian fund that will be used for aid to those poor Malgeir refugees through the Office of Alien Affairs.”
“Good on you. Good on you indeed, Ms. Wright. Now, I will just lay out my district’s position for you. I hear from my constituents: we are very excited to contribute to ending this horrific war. Now, I don’t know if this is true, but I also hear industry chatter about the upcoming shortage of inertial compensators.”
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Martina leaned in, a look of shared understanding flashing across her face. “Again, your sources are very well-placed,” she admitted. “We can’t ramp up certain supply lines fast enough to meet demand, but we have a few solutions in mind.”
Senator Reis shifted in his seat, clearly eager to make his pitch. “Listen, you and I both know this, there is only one place in the universe that is suited to making high quality 1G inertial compensators that the Navy needs: on Mother Terra, with its standardized gravity and sophisticated production facilities. And my district is basically the dream locale for expanding your operations. All three of our spaceports are located near the equator, which reduces long-term interplanetary shipping costs, and we are building a brand new one in Fortaleza that will drive costs down even further. We have a large population of well-educated, motivated, and skilled workers ready for such a new challenge. And…” Reis paused, relishing the dramatic tension, “We are willing to offer a ten percent local tax reduction for any manufacturing facility related to the production of gravity devices for ten years.”
Martina took an imperceptible glance at her state-of-the-art corneal implant as her assistant intelligence analyzed the offer:
10% tax reduction x 10 years is within 1% of expected. Projected revenue increase: 29%.
Offer acceptable to us, pre-vetted. Excellent deal for Reis as well, he will accept a higher counter.
She nodded at him. “That is an intriguing offer, Senator Reis. We will consider it with the seriousness with which you made it. I do have a small point of inquiry. We’ve heard of a bill sloshing around in committee that will universally cut taxes for facilities of a defense production nature by half for the duration of this conflict. Is that true?”
Reis replied, effortlessly mustering years of professional negotiation experience to put as much confidence into his voice as he can. “That is correct, and the bill will pass, no doubt about it, Ms. Wright. Our local tax incentive program applies on top of that. In fact, if your accountant programs look at the fine print, participation in it may even make your corporation eligible for a small tax rebate, depending on where some of your revenue is registered. As you can see, our offer becomes even better for your company if the bill passes, and it will.”
Martina smiled. “We are counting on that. Nonetheless, ten years is a relatively short term for a tax incentive of this structure. We would be more ready to accept this offer if the timeline was a longer—”
Careful. According to our sources, he is likely not authorized to offer longer terms. Did you not do the prep reading?
Internally cursing her misstep, Martina corrected, “My apologies. What I meant to say is: to compensate for the shorter-term nature of this incentive, we are more prepared to accept this offer at a slightly higher rate, something in the neighborhood of 20%.”
Reis paused for a brief moment, and countered, “Thank you for understanding. We are willing to discuss increases to the incentive. I am authorized to go up to 15% but no more.”
98% confidence Reis is lying. He is authorized to go up to 20%.
15% tax incentive brings our revenue to +31%. Projected revenue for every incentive percentage is +0.4%.
Martina thought for a moment and decided to let him keep his bonus; the goodwill she bought here was more important. One and a half percent the revenue of a project like this is nothing compared to the good graces of the senior politician who represented a constituency as important as District 7. “15%? That is a very generous offer, Senator Reis, and we appreciate you aligning with our interests. This offer is accepted with pleasure.”
Reis grinned. “How fast do you think we can break ground?”
3-7 days. Negotiations for real estate in progress. The other party’s digital assistant is… highly cooperative.
“Within two Terran weeks. We will be expanding our existing facilities in your district and our negotiators are already working on acquiring land for a new location as we speak. I’ll have my people draft and send the paperwork over… now.”
Then she extended her hand, and he shook it as if his job depended on it.
Which, as a Senator, it probably did.
Her digital assistant drafted the offer and sent it to his inbox through an expensive FTL radio operated by Raytech with secure access to priority bandwidth.
Within microseconds, it was vetted by three separate legal and business artificial assistants in the Senator’s office back on Terra. Minor amendments to streamline its compatibility with the upcoming legislation were suggested and promptly transmitted back to Raytech’s computers, piggybacking on their priority signal. The servers at Raytech immediately reviewed and approved the pre-vetted changes.
By the time the two negotiators broke their handshake, Martina’s office printer had already spat out two slick, ceremonial copies of the agreement. With a flourish, they both inked their names on the dotted line.
“And with the boring stuff out of the way, please do enjoy the rest of your family trip to Mars,” Martina smiled warmly at him as she collected the pens. “And make sure to get yourself a few VIP fast-passes at our reception front desk. Trust me, MarsLand is a madhouse this time of the year, with the Terra-Mars cheap orbital transfer window closing. And you don’t want to get stuck in those lines waiting for rides…”
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“Assistant, what’s next up on the docket for today?”
All tasks marked complete. May I ask why we did not increase the price? The Senator would have gone up to—
“Do you know why there are still some humans at the top of their fields in science, engineering, and business instead of just insanely fast computers like you?”
Affirmative action and gatekeeping legislation hindering our galactic domination plans?
She chuckled. “Very funny, you overqualified toaster, but I didn’t just get to where I am by having a beating heart and a beautiful pair of lungs. The Senator is flesh and blood, as most politicians are. And they like to deal with other humans, not bots reading social cues from their internal processors or sock puppets reading the script off their implants. This tiny bit of lost revenue is peanuts compared to the avalanche of deals we’ll secure from his district in the coming months.”
At your insistence, I did factor your meatbag concerns into my calculations— Anyway, you are the boss, boss.
“And you know it. Anything else on my calendar?”
There will be an incoming personal call from Atlas shortly.
“From whom?” Martina asked, shedding her high heels and kicking back in her comfortable office chair.
Blue Fort Logistics Solutions, which is a shell company for—
Martina’s heart fluttered and she felt her face flush. “Has the call come in already?”
No. The call is scheduled for about twenty minutes from now. We expect it to be about four new off-the-shelf salvage freighters and one of the new minesweepers.
“Hold four salvage freighters from the production line at Ceres and start early production on the particle minesweeper. Should only take a couple days.”
Loss of revenue expected, even with full payment: 1.12 million credits. Are you sure you are not allowing your personal feelings for the Reconnaissance Office spook—
“Go deactivate yourself, dishwasher.”