Return on Investment
Chapter THREE - Economies of Scale
"Erusean expansionism is a slanderous myth invented by Eruseaphobes."
— Queen Madelaine Celcia Marie Claire Fantine Alianor d'Aquitaine D'Elise of Erusea, during the Fifth Sphere of Expansion
OIA Headquarters
Oured, Osean Federation
11 April 2020
David North, OIA Advanced Weapons Analyst, stared at the screen and fidgeted with his headset, deep in thought. Something wasn't right.
It was three o'clock in the morning, and the fifth-floor office - sleek and modern with polished walls of fine alder - was brightly lit. There was only a single, one-way window that looked out into the sleepy outlines of suburban Oured, streetlights glowering in the bleary darkness like gems. Potted plants were clustered around the office - ferns, jasmine, and other vibrant flora that soothed the eyes and focused the mind. On the other side was a marble bench with a coffee machine, along with a pair of tiered cabinets spilling over with hastily-sorted files.
A single computer screen sat on the main working desk, its edges covered in colorful post-it notes. On the screen itself were several windows; some showing news articles and media broadcasts, others intelligence reports and schematics, and one more playing a livestream of lo-fi hip-hop study beats. Connection speed was slow, owing to the still-incomplete restoration of Osea's global communication channels, but at least the important databases were still accessible.
Sipping a mug of fragrant, steaming brew that lightened his weary eyelids, David reviewed the evidence for the third time that morning. He had not slept for several days. What had started as a simple assignment had very quickly become a frighteningly deep rabbit hole that went far beyond its initial scope.
All of this focused on a single subject; the Exactor, an Izumo-class escort carrier built and operated by the General Resource corporation. As a carrier, it was nothing special; capable only of carrying two dozen aircraft, and even then only V/STOL fighters and anti-submarine helicopters. On the high seas, a real carrier would easily flatten it in the space of three, maybe four minutes.
No, what David found perplexing was a more fundamental question...
'Here's a question for you, Alex.' he said, tapping the microphone on his headset. As he spoke, his words were transcribed into a chat window, appearing beside a cartoon avatar of himself. 'Why would a private corporation need an aircraft carrier?'
After a moment's delay, a robotic voice pitched firmly on a feminine register, clipped back into his headphones.
«... I have insufficient parameters to answer that query.» replied Alex, David's personal AI assistant. An orange speech box appeared as a reply in the chat window. «The parameters you gave me are trash.»
'Smooth as always.' David said, giving a wry grin. Alex's expertly-programmed humor heuristics, further augmented by self-learning from interactions with David, belied her robotic nature - a key factor in bridging the communications gap between man and machine working in tandem.
'Well, I guess that one was a little vague. Let's make it more specific - define "corporation" for me.'
There was a pause, before Alex replied,
«... A corporation is a legal entity that is separate from its owners. They can enter contracts, loan and borrow money, sue and be sued, hire employees, own assets, and pay taxes. They are created when a group of shareholding owners "incorporate" their holdings of common stock to pursue a common goal. Example: General Resource Limited.»
David nodded. 'Good. So the question becomes,' he opened a new window and typed the words of his revised question, '"Why would General Resource, a group pursuing a common goal, need an aircraft carrier?".'
«Querying... Additional parameters required.»
'I'm not sure I follow.'
«David. What are aircraft carriers used for?»
'That's easy. Aircraft carriers are tools used to project power. They're offensive weapons, typically used in conjunction with other naval assets to attack discrete targets at times and places of their choosing.'
«So, your query is,» Assuming control of David's screen, Alex altered the question's wording; «"Why would General Resource, a group pursuing a common goal, need to project power and attack targets at times and places of their choosing?"»
'... Yes, that's correct. Can you give me an answer now?'
«Additional parameters are needed for me to answer a query of this nature within a reasonable confidence interval. »
'Really?'
«You are the analyst, David. My function is to collate data and make predictions. Yours is to analyze the data and draw conclusions.»
David threw his hands up, conceding the point. 'Point taken.' he said. 'It's just so strange that General Resource is acting like a major world power. But surely, that's really not their plan... right? Everything they do must serve their common goal. But then, what is that goal? There's gotta be clues somewhere.'
«Would you like me to provide an overview of General Resource's business portfolio?»
David rubbed his temple. Fatigue was beginning to set in again, but he fended it off with another gulp of coffee. 'I've got a bad feeling about this. But yeah, sure.'
«Accessing... General Resource Limited is a multinational trading company based in the Usean city of Port Edwards. Their business operations include: Freight logistics. Shipbuilding. Telecommunications. Computer systems. Aerospace research and development. Their recent acquisition of North Osea Gründer Industries has gained them new expertise in arms manufacturing. They also offer private military services.»
David raised an eyebrow. 'Private military? I thought it was simply an internal escort service.'
«Yes - General Resource Defense Force. Formerly known as General Resource Guardian Mercenaries, their stated purpose is to protect General Resource's trade operations on air, land, and sea. But it appears that remit has been expanded.»
'GR Guardian Mercenaries...' David reflected, sipping his coffee again. 'I've heard that name before. But where?'
«They were involved with former Brigadier-General Howard Clemens of the Osean Air Defense Force. On September 10, 2019, two GRGM aircraft engaged the 124th Tactical Fighter Squadron "Strider" over Anchorhead Bay during Operation Domino.»
The memory clicked in David's mind. Of course! How could he have forgotten?
'Three Strikes... That was part of last year's Alicorn operation!'
«Yes.» Alex replied flatly. «Also - the refurbishment and upgrade of the submarine Alicorn was another General Resource project.»
'Hmm... Now that, I didn't know.'
David took a moment, thinking long and hard about the implications. If Alex's data was accurate - and it usually was - then General Resource had a hand not only in restoring the submarine that nearly turned Oured into a radioactive parking lot, but had also provided the hired guns that were ready and willing to murder Three Strikes, a national hero.
But why had they become involved in these activities to that extent in the first place? There had to be a reason.
So just what else had they been up to? There were far too many data points for David to go through on his own, yet he knew there was something there. Something big, something that everyone - from frontline heroes like Three Strikes to the big decision-makers in the Osean government - had all missed. But what was it? What lay behind it all?
'Alex, collate me a summary of GR's major activities over the last ten years.' he said, finally. 'Search the databases of every OIA branch and department - I don't care if we have the clearance or not.'
«Accessing.» Alex's response was prompt. Such tasks, after all, represented one of her many primary functions; processing data and running calculations with blinding speed, freeing up David's own formidable brain power for other tasks.
As she returned her results, drawn from hundreds of archived files from almost as many sources, the line items appeared on the screen in sequence;
«Here is an overview of General Resource's major activities since April 11, 2010:
▪ Acquired the eight major Usean shipyards
▪ Established General Resource Guardian Mercenaries
▪ Refurbished and upgraded the submarine Alicorn
▪ Acquired approximately ninety-three percent of North Osea Gründer Industries' liquidated assets and personnel
▪ Reorganized General Resource Guardian Mercenaries into General Resource Defense Force
▪ Launched the aircraft carrier, Exactor
▪ Militarily intervened in the Independent State of Shilage, assisting local defense forces on behalf of Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise of Erusea
Additional details are available if required.»
David whistled. He scanned through the list, and found himself swallowing - he was on to something. Taken individually, each singular event didn't mean very much. Only now, when they had been so neatly laid out in a sequence, was there evidence of a slow, methodical rise to power; culminating in the launch of a carrier and its use in battle.
But the question still remained; to what purpose were they building up such power in the first place?
'Thanks, Alex.' he said, still as impressed with her now as he had been since they started working together. 'Now, with these inputs, can you build us a model of General Resource's future trajectory? Make it... sensuous.'
David wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. But as an intelligence analyst, it was his job to ask such questions.
«Analyzing...» There was a delay of about eight seconds. «... Forecast complete.»
Alex played her visualization on the screen; numbers and information, charts and diagrams, colors and arrows on a map... a dizzying symphony of data. This was another of Alex's key functions - given enough inputs, she had the critical ability to build highly-detailed models of possible futures. This function had saved Oured from destruction during the Alicorn crisis. It would surely do it again this time.
David watched, still in awe of the power of the machine. Watching Alex's most likely future play out, he brought the coffee mug to his lips... then froze.
'Oh...' he mumbled to himself, a startling realization suddenly taking hold on his mind. 'Oh, those General Resource bastards... So that's what they're after!'
«Based on available parameters, I calculate ninety-seven percent accuracy. With a three percent margin of error.»
'This is bad! This is so bad!' David said quickly, already reaching for the phone to dial his boss. 'Alex, play Despatico!'
The International Space Elevator
Selatapura Bay, Southwest Usea
11 April 2020
With a spark of newfound determination in her eyes, Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise marched down the clean, white hallways of the Space Elevator as she made a beeline straight for her office. She had returned to the sanctuary of the Space Elevator after a period of absence with a singular, burning objective.
'You gonna tell me what this is about?'
At her side was Avril Mead, her closest companion and the first person who had brought her back from the brink of despair, near the end of the last war. Now functioning as a quasi-deputy, Avril had taken on the weighty task of managing the entire refugee community in Rosa's absence. And it showed - despite her tough facade, her eyes were bleary from stress and lack of sleep.
'I'm going to call for help.' Rosa told her. 'From Osea.'
'Again?' Avril was looking at her as if she'd gone insane. 'You came all the way back here just to make another phone call to that asshole President? What happened to sticking with General Resource?'
'... Things changed.' Rosa said flatly.
'You do know that the only reason General Resource is getting as far as they're getting is because our dumbass President's been dropping the ball this whole time. What makes you think he'll just change his mind?'
'Trust me.'
Avril sighed. 'I just hope you know what you're doing, running back to that egotistic maniac. Again.'
Stopping at the door to her office, the Princess gave Avril a thoughtful look. 'As do I, Avril.' she said staidly. 'As do I.'
She swiped her keypass. There was a dull buzz, a brief whine of servos churning, and the door unlocked. Rosa pushed it open and made straight for the old, corded landline telephone sitting on her working desk.
'I'm guessing you've got a plan?' Avril asked, reasonably. 'Our track record at getting President Asshat to play ball with us hasn't exactly been great.'
They sat down at opposite sides of the table, with the landline phone in the middle. The ageing device looked curiously out of place in the sleek aesthetic of the Space Elevator, but the months following the communications breakdown had rendered modern communications spotty and unreliable even at best of times. Older technologies that were not reliant on constantly-functional computer networks - such has analog landlines - had been dusted off and given a new lease on life.
'I do. Just trust me.' Rosa said. She brought the handset to her ear and punched in a sequence of numbers. 'He's got an ego. But rather than fight it, I'm going to use it.'
Avril shrugged. 'Whatever.'
'Thank you.' Rosa said, before taking a deep breath.
Best under my circumstances, right? she reflected, before pressing dial.
After a solid, tedious minute, a human voice finally answered on the other side.
«Osean Department of State. Please state your business...»
Bright Hill
Oured, Osean Federation
11 April 2020
The phone rang at approximately five o'clock in the morning.
From atop the green acres of the aptly-named Bright Hill estate, every Osean President had enjoyed a commanding view of the bustling Oured skyline. A kaleidoscope of lights, stretching from one horizon to the other, gradually shuttering off one by one as dawn approached.
Anyone looking up at Bright Hill from the city now would see it silhouetted against the morning sun; the proverbial shining house upon a hill, a glittering beacon of Osean power and majesty, a portent that things were always going to get better and better. Such was the promise of the Osean Dream.
But, at the end of the day, it was only just a promise. And promises could be broken.
With a grumble, Prescott Frederic Marshall - 50th President of the Osean Federation - sat up in his bed. He yawned and flicked on the bedside lamp, before finally picking up the phone.
'What is it?' he grouched.
«Mr President, it's Gabriel. We have Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise of Erusea on the line for you. She wishes to discuss an urgent matter for your ears only. Should I tell her you're busy again?»
The President rubbed his forehead. The son of a coal miner, he had a rough face with watery eyes and a graying stubble that narrowly concealed the beginnings of a double chin. Three months ago, he had swept into power on a wave of isolationist sentiment sparked by the aftermath of the Lighthouse War; Erusea's hijacking of the much-vaunted Arsenal Birds and other early-war successes had hit hard, and the still-ongoing chaos of the communications breakdown had simply been the icing on the cake.
The world had changed too much, too fast, and the Osean public had had enough. Capitalizing on this, Marshall's number one campaign promise had been to discontinue Vincent Harling's flowery policy of 'peacebuilding' - which, by default, meant withdrawing the Osean troops stationed in Usea.
'I do not consider the whole of Usea to be worth the bones of a single Osean Marine.' he had proclaimed in his inaugral address, to a cheering crowd of thousands - many of whom had been anti-war activists during the Circum-Pacific War. 'Under my administration, I hereby promise that all of our boys and girls overseas will be home by Christmas. If the Useans love their peace and security so badly, they can go and fight for it themselves; Freedom ain't cheap - it's time to pay up, or shut up!'
Since then, his administration had been inundated with hundreds of frantic calls from the various Usean allies to reverse or at least slow the Osean withdrawal, to no avail. And Princess Cosette herself had the loudest and most persistent of them all.
Early on, a small part of Marshall had found it deliciously ironic to see the Erusean Princess, who less than a year ago had been fervently and furiously denouncing "Osean imperialism", come crawling back begging for exactly that with tears in her eyes.
But that was only a small part. Now it had become a chore, one that the Osean President had little time for in the business of running his own country.
Yet, even so...
'No, put her through.' Marshall sighed, yawning again as he brushed the tail of his nightcap away from his face. 'I'm already awake.'
«Of course, Mr President. Transferring her through now.»
There was a short, clipped electronic tone - an audible notice that the conversation was now being recorded. Then, finally, his least favorite voice in the world came on the line.
«Good morning, Prescott. This is Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise of Erusea. I hope you are keeping well.»
'You're lucky you're still a celebrity, Cossette.' Marshall said tersely. 'It's not often that just anyone can give me a call and know that I'll pick up the phone. What do you want?'
He knew what she was going to say. It was going to be the same thing she always said - first, a carefully-rehearsed tirade of empty platitudes. Then, tearful demands for humanitarian aid and a renewed military presence. The spoilt little Princess had used that exact formula no less than thirteen times before, and the same answer awaited her every time; "No". And on the one occasion she had the temerity to ask "Why not?", the President's measured response had simply been; "Because we're Osea, bitch."
And it seemed that trend was going to continue.
'Give me one good reason why I shouldn't hang up on you right now.'
«I've come to give you a warning, President Marshall.» came the response, spoken with an unusual confidence. «A situation is developing in Usea that may be of interest to you.»
Not likely, Marshall thought, scoffing internally.
'Oh? You're approaching me?' he said with dry sarcasm. 'Instead of running away, you're coming right to me?'
Rosa, however, stood her ground. «I can't tell you what's going on if I don't.»
Marshall raised an eyebrow. There was definitely something different about Rosa's conduct on this occasion. This time, unlike before, she had gotten straight to the point with nary a pointless quip - almost as if it were something truly important. And she had not yet made even a single demand!
«I've been approached by an organization calling itself General Resource.» Rosa continued after a short pause. «They have made a very generous offer to assist us with our humanitarian efforts and refugee crisis; on our behalf, they have pledged to invest large sums into reconstruction and development on mainland Usea to build safe, new homes for our refugees.»
General Resource... where have I heard that before, Marshall reflected, stroking his stubbled chin.
'That's... good news.' he said mirthlessly.
«Indeed. And it won't be long before they make an offer to buy the Elevator for themselves.»
'And how does this concern Osea?' Marshall asked with a smug grin, putting the very question that had stopped Rosa cold in every one of their previous conversations.
There was another pause. «As you know, Marshall, the Space Elevator was built on the backs of the Osean taxpayer - their efforts, sweat, and feelings will forever be woven into its very structure. And even now, the Elevator still serves its purpose as a source of unlimited energy.»
A source of free energy... Marshall mused. ... I'd forgotten about that part.
«I'm not asking for your help.» Rosa continued. «But I'd rather you have the Space Elevator, than General Resource. I am giving it to you on a silver plate - and you're arguing.»
'A silver plate with strings attached, I bet.'
«Freedom ain't cheap.» Rosa's use of Marshall's own words against him was deliberate, and produced an appropriate effect. «And the Space Elevator isn't going anywhere. It will forever stand as an investment made by the Osean people.»
'And I represent the will of the Osean people. And I still happen to think the whole investment was a big fat mistake.'
«That would be your decision, of course. Your return on that investment is what you make of it. If you truly wish to abandon it, then there is nothing I can do to stop you.»
Marshall said nothing, waiting expectantly for the inevitable "but".
«But,» Yep, there it was. «Let me ask you this question; if someone else were to take over the Space Elevator, and use its power against you... Could you honestly look your people in the eye, and still tell them that all of their contributions were for naught? Could you still take responsibility for your decision to leave the Space Elevator to its fate?»
She paused a third time, this time for effect, before finishing.
«I would not want either of us to be caught by surprise if that possibility were to occur.»
Marshall flashed an annoyed grin. Again, her choice of words had been deliberate and well-targeted; in the last three wars Osea had fought, the country had been caught completely off-guard, and always for the same reason - they had underestimated a looming threat until it was far too late. Osea would always emerge victorious, of course, but always at great cost in men and materiel.
And now, Rosa had made the not-so subtle suggestion that this 'General Resource' - a growing megacorp with what she claimed was an outsized influence on world affairs - could very easily do the same.
'Pretty words, Princess.' Marshall said, suitably impressed by her newfound boldness. Far from the timid, mumbling wreck she used to be. 'I'll admit that you've grown a spine, and I respect that.'
«Thank you.»
'But as I've told you before, too many Osean lives were lost for that Elevator. I won't let that happen anymore. I'm cutting our losses and bringing them all home. Even if this "General Resource" group takes it over and attacks us, that's fine - we'll just fight our way out, like we always do. And we won't need a magical Space Elevator to do it.'
«Then the brave Osean soldiers who died in its defense will truly have died for nothing.»
Marshall's lip tightened. A part of him believed that the whole premise was ridiculous, that this was nothing more than the Princess getting creative in her ways of asking for Osean aid. After all, who had ever heard of a corporation running around with its own military? The very idea was crazy.
Crazy enough to be true...?
Still, even if it was a load of shit, it would be irresponsible to dismiss such a warning out of hand. He needed more information. He might have been the President of a superpower, but he was still only one man, and one man alone could never have all the information. And there was still a chance, however remote, that the Princess' warning could in fact be genuine.
What he needed was evidence. And so far, the Princess had offered none.
Then the door knocked. Grumbling, Marshall said curtly, 'Cossette. If what you have told me is true, you will have gained my trust. I'll call you back in fifteen minutes.'
He hung up, before looking up towards the door.
'What is it?' he snapped, loud enough for his voice to penetrate the door. 'I am very busy right now!'
The door opened. In stepped the Director of the OIA, along with another man he did not recognize, a thinly-built nerd with curly dark hair and glasses. He was carrying a folder, loaded with files - most likely a report, with a mountain of evidence to go with it. Marshall had a tingling premonition that he was not going to like this.
'Apologies, Mister President, but this can't wait. This is David North, one of our seniors from Advanced Weapons Analysis. He's found something that might interest you.'
'Hey.' said David, waving nervously like a rabbit dropped into a lion's den.
President Marshall sized him up from head to toe. He looked fairly young for a man in his position, with a smooth face that hadn't yet wrinkled. Probably not a day over thirty. He wore a simple white shirt that was unbuttoned at the top. Here in Bright Hill, where everyone dressed and waddled around like penguins, he looked very out of place.
Well, not that Marshall had any room to judge anyone at this point. He himself was still sitting up in bed, wearing his pajamas. And - unlike many others in Bright Hill - he was also somewhat partial to young talent. So, just this once, he would overlook David's lack of dress sense. But only to a point.
'This better be good.' he said in a low voice. 'Start talking.'
With a friendly nudge from his boss, David started talking.
The impromptu meeting had been called on very short notice. It was a strange sight, with President Prescott F. Marshall - arguably the most powerful man in the world - heading up a meeting still dressed in his blue, loosely-fitting nightshirt in front of his closest cabinet members and advisors in the Bright Hill Executive Office study.
The study was a small room, suited directly adjacent to the Executive Office. Although the sandy, soundproofed walls, yellow-orange lighting, and timber furniture gave an impression of comfort, it was barely large enough to fit the meeting attendees.
President Marshall turned over the OIA report in his hands and frowned.
The report, an AI-generated forecast compiled by David North and backed up by dozens of pages of evidence and painstaking analysis, concerned the rise of a corporation - none other than General Resource. Apparently, they had spent the last decade hard at work, quietly building up their strength, acquiring assets, resources, and personnel from behind the scenes. As a testament to their progress, their comms networks had remained intact when everyone else's had fallen during the Lighthouse War.
And since the end of the conflict, they had redoubled their efforts. Already, they were exploiting the power vacuum left in Usea; under the guise of alleviating the humanitarian strain at the Space Elevator, they were now flooding the tiny nation of Shilage with more investment capital than the locals knew what to do with.
The implication was made clear in the report's conclusion, consisting of a single point - General Resource was well on the way to reshaping the entire world order in its image. From humble beginnings as a Usean shipping company, they had quietly maneuvered themselves into positions of power across many key industries, and had now reached a stage where they could now openly wield their power and continue to snowball their influence.
The case study of Shilage was simply the first sign of this new trend; that General Resource now had the power to lock entire countries into their orbit. And if this continued, they would in time become powerful enough to even threaten Osean shores.
Just as Princess Cossette had warned him.
'The threat posed by General Resource is real, Mr President.' concurred Secretary of Defense Shepherd, a former Lieutenant-General in the Osean Air Defense Force. Although a capable officer that had proven himself during the Lighthouse War, he had been a staunch opponent of Marshall's policy of withdrawal - and now he saw his chance to make his views heard. 'Believe me, I've dealt with them before. Hell, those bastards even have a carrier now. We have to put their egos in check and show them who's boss.'
'The problem, Shepherd, is that we have no concrete evidence that they have done anything wrong.' argued Secretary of State Gabriel William Clarkson, a young but skilled diplomat charged with translating the President's whims into a language that foreigners could understand. Unlike Shepherd, he preferred to sit down and talk about problems instead of shooting them. 'Not yet, anyway. Yes, they're building up their forces, and yes, they've been making inroads into mainland Usea... but they haven't yet taken any actions that would adversely affect the Osean national interest.'
'And what is the Osean national interest? Letting our enemies run amok across the world?'
'We can't punish someone for something they might hypothetically do until they actually do it.'
'And when they do, it will be far too late.' Shepherd countered sharply. 'What will it cost us? Another 'Training Accident' at Sand Island? How about a repeat performance of drones being launched from cargo ships?'
Saying nothing, Marshall clasped his hands thoughtfully as the argument continued.
'I believe in peace and constructive dialogue.' Clarkson said, speaking like a true diplomat.
Shepherd harrumphed. 'And I believe in taking action.' he said, scornfully. He turned back to face Marshall. 'Mr President, sir. During the Lighthouse War, we received information that the Erusean submarine "Alicorn" was going to launch an attack on Oured. We did not put our hopes in "peace" or "constructive dialogue".' he said, taking special care to make use of air quotes. 'We took action. We authorized a mission to send that boat to the bottom of the ocean with the power of our ace pilots, and in doing so saved ten million lives.'
'This is different.' Clarkson persisted. 'You can't compare a rogue submarine and a corporation. I'm not ruling out the use of force, Mr President, but I encourage you to consider this matter very carefully.'
'Don't listen to him, sir!' growled Shepherd. 'He doesn't know what he's saying! We have to hit them, and we have to hit them now!'
President Marshall slammed his fist on the desk. 'Enough!' he barked, standing up. The room fell silent. 'Let me be clear,' he said firmly. 'I have no interest in starting another war. Not if we can avoid it.'
Shepherd's eyes went wide. 'You're just gonna run away?'
Marshall looked him in the eye. 'No.' he said. 'If General Resource is gathering their strength and throwing their weight around, then we will not ignore them. They are still a very real threat.'
'Precisely.' Clarkson said. 'The rise of General Resource is just that; a threat - the potential for harm, but not harm in of itself.'
'That threat poses an unacceptable risk to our national security.' Marshall said, turning his gaze to face him. 'Our country will not be taken by surprise again.'
'So, what are you proposing?' Shepherd asked, with a tone that positively screamed "get to the point!".
Closing his eyes, Marshall took a deep breath. 'I am going to suspend our military withdrawal from Usea, effective immediately.' he said with deep resignation. Each word was painful to enunciate... but there was no going back now. 'Pending further review, I will also direct our intelligence services to double up their activities and monitor the region more closely.'
'A compromise...' Clarkson mused. 'Neither withdrawing, nor advancing... I suppose this outcome will be satisfactory for the time being.'
'I don't like the idea of sitting back and watching, sir.' Shepherd said stiffly. 'But I agree that suspending the withdrawal is a good first step.'
'Excellent.' Marshall nodded, before sitting back down. 'Current deployments and commitments in Usea will be allowed to continue. But we will not intervene anywhere, unless there is a sudden and significant change in the security environment. Do I have any questions?'
The only response was a deathly silence, which Marshall took as collective consent.
'Good...' he sighed, feeling as though he had just bid farewell to his chances at re-election. 'Now... what troops do we have left in Usea?'
'Not a lot.' Shepherd admitted. 'Most of our forces have been withdrawn already.'
'There is still the LRSSG.' said the steeled voice of Jack Bartlett, National Security Advisor, speaking up for the first time since the meeting began. The man was an accomplished fighter pilot, having served as far back as the dark days of the Belkan War. Although his maverick disregard for authority had slowed his progress up the military food chain, his unorthodox leadership style had eventually been recognized by the right people. It was this quality - combined with the chaotic upheaval caused by the communications breakdown - that had propelled him to his current appointment by President Marshall.
The irony had not been lost on anyone, least of all the man himself.
'The LRSSG... How do you rate 'em?' Marshall asked.
Bartlett gave a lopsided grin. 'They're good... enough.' That was about as close to praise as the man was going to get. There was a wistful look in his eyes. He was undoubtedly wishing he could be out there with them - anything to get away from what he probably thought was a suffocating desk job. 'Most of the time, though, they just sit on their asses. But they've still got a fully-equipped strike package that can touch any pressure point on the continent, and touch it hard. You point, they shoot - no questions asked.'
'There's also the Fort Grace Aerial Recon Group.' added SecDef Shepherd. 'Plus the Marine Corps' Basilisk Team. We can pair them up with the LRSSG to increase their strength.'
'If this is the path we're taking,' Gabriel W. Clarkson chipped in. 'Then I'd also suggest working more closely with our Usean allies in the IUN-PKF. Perhaps this will lead to the creation of a new task force - a sort of universal peace-enforcement organization, if you will.'
Marshall didn't like the idea of talking to the Useans again, especially after having spent much of his current term putting them on mute, but he still nodded his agreement.
'... Alright. Guess we don't have a choice now. We'll get a conversation going, then we talk strategy.'
'Yes, sir.'
This ended the meeting.
Dispersing the group and returning to the Executive Office, Marshall stood at the window and gazed out.
'Oured...' he monologued. 'The greatest city of the greatest country in the world.'
This was President Marshall's realm. The whole nation of Osea looked to him for leadership and direction. It should have inspired feelings of great power and majesty.
But at that moment, he felt neither powerful nor majestic. He was not happy. As soon as word got out that he was about to do the greatest backflip since the tale of Razgriz, the media would have him for lunch. But the alternative - letting companies like General Resource run roughshod over the world - would certainly be even worse.
It wasn't fair, but that was life. People and personalities had little impact on the deep structural forces that truly drove the flow of world events - one could only respond to them. The most intelligent and charismatic of characters could slow them down, perhaps even guide them along, but never stop them. No matter what crowd-pleasing ideas and revolutionary policies came along, the constraints of a nation's geography would always drag its people back to reality, sooner or later. All the Osean President could do, as with any leader, was to work with the tools he had and do his utmost to survive - regardless of his own feelings and preferences.
With a wistful sigh, he turned around and slumped down at the Presidential desk. Like Vincent Harling before him, Prescott F. Marshall now found himself at the dawn of a new age that demanded a new strategy. It would be a long road, and it would almost certainly hurt like hell, but it had to be better than standing aside and letting General Resource get their way. Osea had to adapt to a changing world, or be left behind.
Until then...
Grumbling again, Marshall snatched up the Presidential telephone.
'Get me Princess Cossette.'
The International Space Elevator
Selatapura Bay, Southwest Usea
11 April 2020
'How long are you gonna keep staring at that phone?'
Rosa was anxiously pacing up and down the office, her mind and body wound up like a spring. Her crystal blue eyes were locked firmly on the telephone sitting on the desk, like a high schooler waiting for her date on prom night.
Avril was sitting at the desk, leaning on her palm in bored silence.
She rolled her eyes. 'You know he's not gonna call any faster if you keep staring, right?'
'You're right, I need to sit down,' she mumbled, rubbing her temples. 'I'm not very good at bluffing... Yet, I said all of those mean, horrible things... I tried to speak in terms of his interests, not mine... But that's not like me at all! What if he noticed? What if he calls me out on being a phoney?'
Avril shrugged. 'Then literally nothing changes.' she said flatly. 'Life goes on.'
'Well, I still can't help it.' Rosa said, slumping back into her chair - though still not taking her eyes off the phone. 'He said fifteen minutes... but it's almost been an hour!'
'Wow, a whole hour. This is a great use of your time. Really.'
'You don't understand. I poured everything into that phone call.'
'Just like all the others before it?'
'No, this is different. I've learned a whole lot in the last few days...'
Avril shrugged again.
'...I did everything I could.' Rosa continued. 'And this is probably as close as we've ever gotten to some real support. I have to know how it went. I have to be there when the call comes!'
Resting her chin on the table, Avril sighed. 'I guess.' she finally conceded. 'Even if it doesn't go through, you at least got the new President of Osea to do something with his ass other than wear it on his head. Even if that something was just a promise to call you back, which is still progress. That's gotta count for something, right?'
'... Yes, it does.'
The conversation petered out, returning to a state of hanging, confused anticipation. Rosa, her mind on a knife's edge, was still gazing intently at the phone as though it were about to stand up and start dancing. Avril, for her part, simply leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. The silence was suffocating, seemingly stretching for an infinite second.
Then the phone rang.
Rosa sprang to her feet and lunged at the phone. Her arms whipped out like striking cobras, snapping up the handset in one swift motion too fast for the human eye to follow. Jolting in surprise, Avril swore and fell off her chair backwards, flailing her arms on the way down.
'H-hello?' Rosa breathed, fumbling with the phone with her cold, quivering hands before finding her grip. She pressed the handset to the side of her face, almost so that it hurt. 'Rosa here...'
Grumbling, Avril picked herself up and dusted off her overalls. Rosa's full attention was on the phone, and the deep conversation she was having on the other side.
'Mhmm. Yes...' she said between short breaths, pausing occasionally to nod or lick her lips. '... Of course. Yes. Yes... Understood... Alright. Thank you.' Then she looked at Avril. '... I'll tell them. Goodbye, Marshall.'
Rosa's expression was severe. Her lips were quivering, and tears began welling up in her eyes. Fearing the worst, Avril approached her, and placed a hand on her shoulder.
'What... did he say?' she asked.
Suddenly, Rosa drew her companion into a tight hug. She was crying now. But in that moment, somehow, Avril understood - they were tears of joy.
'You actually did it...' Avril said, hugging Rosa back. '... You dumbass.'
Avril tried to ignore the lump in her throat. She failed, because something warm and wet was already running down her cheek.
Windeen Lake
Independent State of Shilage, Western Usea
11 April 2020
There were drops of dew on their boots as they walked along the little wooden path that straddled the damp, grassy shoreline of the lake.
Windeen Lake was the largest of its kind in Shilage, gently lapping from the winds blowing in from the hill country beyond, carrying the sweet scents of wild flowers. The water was so clear that it looked pure enough to drink - even from the shore, the rocky bottom of the lake was visible through the water and the little aquatic plants that waved and bobbed beneath its fluctuating surface.
The air was cool and damp. Golden sunlight was rushing down the easterly hilltops like a waterfall, flooding the whole valley with its warmth. Small clouds of mist whirled slowly across the water. Birds and insects sang together in a natural symphony that echoed through the valley, between the dark green fir trees that carpeted the land and surrounded the lake in a leafy cordon.
Apart from a small hamlet of little cottages and chalets - once used as summer retreats for the Shilagian nobility of old - the landscape was a picture of pristine beauty, unmarred by human hands. Like so much of Shilage, Windeen Lake was a reminder of simpler times. Of times long past, lost to the march of history and of Erusean jackboots. Perhaps that was why the Shilagian people cherished it so dearly.
'That's an amazing view.' said Yoko Martha Inoue, personal assistant to Doctor Schroeder, wearing a yellow shirt and matching glasses with slim-fitting cargo pants that highlighted her thin, lithe features.
'Sure is.' said Abyssal Dision, the young champion and leading ace pilot of the General Resource Defense Force.
It was no coincidence that these two, belonging to very different organizations, had come here together.
From his side, Dision was on a mission - given to him directly by Gilbert Park, his manager, superior, and protector. And that was to keep tabs on the movements of Doctor Schroeder, a key advisor in Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise's space elevator community of whom General Resouce was patroning, and whose loyalties to that patronage were suspect.
Schroeder himself had been less than forthcoming about his intentions. In response, Park had ordered Dision to instead recruit his personal assistant - Yoko - as an informant. And so they had met - not entirely by coincidence - on the street, only days earlier. And part of that recruitment was building a bond of trust by any means necessary.
Dision himself was not keen on this mission. A small part of him felt guilty that he was leading Yoko along in this fake relationship, while a much greater part rued the fact that he was stuck on the ground, crawling through a weed of lies like a snake, rather than flying through the sky and indulging in the thrill of flight, of competition, and battle.
'Thanks for bringing me out here.' Yoko said, smiling. 'I couldn't have imagined a place like this.'
'You see a lot from the air.' Dision replied coolly. He returned her smile. 'And it looked like a good spot. I don't say this often, but I guess the view is even better from the ground.'
'You have no idea,' Yoko breathed. 'I spend most of my days indoors, doing my research. It's my passion, and I'm going to be a great scientist one day. But, until I came to Shilage, I've never really appreciated the outdoors.' Then, she looked up at him, with her deep, sparkling eyes. 'Until I met... you.'
'I appreciate that.' Dision said composedly. He still remembered his mission, even as he ignored a small, unfamiliar sensation that had begun tugging in his chest. 'It must be hard work, being a scientist. But also rewarding. Especially working with a big name like the EASA.'
'Rewarding...' Yoko looked down for a moment. 'Yeah... I guess so.'
'No?'
'I can't really complain, given everything that's happened this past year. But sometimes I wish that my boss - Doctor Schroeder - would appreciate me, and what I do for him.'
Bingo.
'I've heard he's a very talented man.' Dision said levelly.
'Oh yes, very talented.' Yoko nodded quickly. 'Very smart. But... you know, he spends so much time on his work that he doesn't make time for anything else.'
'How so?'
'He's very focused. But he doesn't have time for other people, or even other points of view. Everyone is beneath his notice - unless they affect his work in some way, only then does he take an interest. It's like a tunnel vision. '
'Tunnel vision, that's ominous...' Dision reflected thoughtfully, speaking truer than he knew. 'But it sounds like he's left you out of that.'
Yoko sighed wistfully. 'I'm only his personal assistant, so it's not really my place to say...'
Dision said nothing.
'But sometimes,' Yoko continued. 'I feel like all I am to him is another piece of lab equipment. He would ask me; "make this call", "set up this meeting", or "round up these people". And that's all the interaction I get with him. He doesn't teach me anything, or ask for my input. How can I learn in that kind of environment? How can I pursue my dream to become a great scientist?'
'You want something more.'
'I come from a country that places service to others above individual needs. But, well... yes. I do want more. But I know I shouldn't. It's a... complicated emotion...'
Dision nodded slowly. 'Good...'
'Good?' Yoko cocked her head, looking at him quizzically.
'I mean,' Dision said, suddenly aware of her and hoping that he hadn't said something he shouldn't have. 'It's... good that you're aiming high.' he said, managing just short of awkward. 'I hope that you can achieve your dream someday.'
Yoko giggled. 'You're funny.' she said cheerfully. '... You know, I feel like I can really talk to you.'
There was a thump in Dision's chest, a strange feeling that he wasn't entirely comfortable with. 'That so?' he asked, blandly.
'Most people I work with are only interested in me because of my gender.' Yoko said. 'There's this one creep with glasses, I think his name is Simon, who keeps staring at me without saying anything. I don't like that. And what I like even less, is that Doctor Schroeder doesn't even look at me at all.'
She clasped his hand.
'But you... I'm so glad I met you. You listen to what I have to say. You were kind enough to help me when I fell. You invited me here, showed me this wonderful place, took me out of my shell. Now... I want to see more of the world. With you.'
Dision regarded her for a moment. There was something about her eyes... That tugging feeling in his chest was back. This was a critical moment in the mission... the mission... What was the mission? All that was in front of him was Yoko, and her deep eyes...
'Yoko...' he began, then stopped himself.
In that moment, Dision finally understood the growing feeling in his chest. It was a sensation he had never felt before in his life, not even in the cockpit of a supersonic fighter plane. And it made him realize that he did not want to hurt Yoko Martha Inoue's feelings at all.
For that, he suddenly felt very guilty. This girl was innocent. She was opening himself up to him, and had expressed every feeling short of a confession. And in return, he was taking her for a wild ride that would only end in tears - not just for her, but now for himself too. She had come to like him, and now the feeling was mutual. And it was too late to turn back...
Unless... unless the deception, this fake relationship, could be made real? The thought frightened him, but not as much as that of breaking Yoko's heart. Of failing to protect her smile...
Dision sighed, and said, '... You should go back to the Space Elevator.'
Yoko visibly sank. 'Why...?' she asked.
'It's not you. It's my job.' Dision said, turning away. He couldn't bear to look her in the eye. 'They send me places that... I just can't take you to. But at least, we could keep in touch.'
Yoko managed a weak smile. '... I'd like that.' she said, though she clearly didn't.
Even seeing that, Dision found painful. But this was for the best. It had to be. 'Don't worry.' he said. 'My boss should be wrapping up the refugee negotiations with the Shilagian government today. If he gets lucky, things will become a lot more peaceful.'
'I hope he's not the only one getting lucky today.' Yoko said. There was a tantalizing look in her eyes.
EASA Flight Test Center
Lac Colère Salt Flats, Western Usea
12 April 2020
Thirty-two hours had passed since Lorenz Riedel arrived in Farbanti by boat in the wee hours of the previous night. Per his meeting instructions, he had gingerly sailed it into the flooded ruins of the ancient Palais D'Elise, a dismal place accessible only during periods of very low tide.
Then a bag had been placed over his head. He had heard harsh, muffled voices, and felt his middle-aged body be manhandled and dumped somewhere dark and quiet. He had spent the rest of that time being tossed around like a ragdoll, and it was not long before he realized that he had ended up in the trunk of a car.
Was he going to meet his death? At this point, Lorenz didn't even care. He was an older man, with rough gray hair and two scars from two different wars across a hard, jaded face. He experienced perennial back pains from a spinal compression fracture - yet another war wound. So what if they killed him? Let them. His glory days were already long behind him. And with the direction his health was going, he probably was not long for this world anyway.
Although the Erusean government still existed on paper, in practice the nation was teetering precariously on the edge of disorder. Every pillar of Erusean power was in disarray; The economy had been ruined by Ulysses; the military had been decimated by two consecutive failed adventures; government communication outlets were still offline from the aftermath of the Lighthouse War; and the internal security services were up to their necks fighting a losing battle against breakaway territories sensing their chance at freedom and openly rebelling against the once-iron rule of Farbanti. The only things holding together the disjointed mess that remained were duct tape, and the goodwill of Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise.
This near-failed state suited men like Lorenz - a Belkan in a land hostile to Belkans - quite nicely. So long as he didn't draw attention to himself, he could move around relatively unmolested.
Until now, of course.
«On your feet!» growled a distorted, augmetic voice spoken in the Belkan language, sounding like a Dalek with a bad cold.
Lorenz felt himself fall onto something hard and crusty, before hard, gloved hands dragged him to his feet. The bag was suddenly and roughly pulled from his head. Sunlight, hot and dusty, rushed into his face after so much time spent in confined darkness.
All around him was the sheet of vast, featureless white; salt flats. Just looking at it made him flinch from the sunlight glaring off its surface and straight into his eyes. Even the air felt laced with salt, every breath parching his throat even more than it had been after thirty hours in the trunk of a car. The cloudless sky held only the blazing sun, beating down so hot and hard that the horizon was shimmering in the heat.
He also got a good look at his escorts. There were three of them; all tall, armed, and massively-built. They wore buckled boots and heavy body armor that had no identifying markings. Dripping pipes sprouted from the backs of their necks, connecting to some kind of stimulant tank strapped to their backs. Their faces were covered by filtered respirators with dark visors, and carried XM8 rifles - at least one of which was aimed to cover Lorenz at any one time.
Mercenaries... Lorenz deduced, the word bringing back uncomfortable memories in his mind. But how? And why?
There was another hard augmetic growl, and one of the guards violently shoved him. «Turn around, and start walking!»
Just shoot me, you mercenary dogs! he glowered inwardly. Shoot me, and then go and collect your wages! I'm no use to anyone anymore. Not even to your employer, even if he doesn't realize it yet!
Still, he complied with their demands. He turned around, still having to shield his eyes from the sun, and began to trudge forward. His escorts followed him, stalking from behind like hyenas in hostile silence. Ahead, he could make out fences, structures, hangars, and a sign with four letters; EASA.
An air base? Here? How nostalgic... he reflected. Maybe I really am getting old.
Lorenz Riedel was not a man of good health. Aged in his early fifties, the strength of youth had left him long ago. Although a veteran of the Belkan War, his memories of glory in battle were just that - memories. His time had passed, shot down on his last battle over the vaunted Round Table by a team of mercenary pilots. The humiliation had been crushing, and he later tried to rekindle his flame by travelling to Estovakia in the employ of North Osea Gründer Industries, offering his expertise as a pilot and engineer. But, eventually, he was shot down again, and his failure quickly saw him chased from the Anean continent in disgrace.
The stresses from these events had pushed his body to the breaking point; repeated ejections had left a compression fracture in his spine, and other wounds sustained in battle had rendered him too weak and debilitated to fly. In very simple terms, he was no longer airworthy.
How strange, then, that it was an old contact from his Gründer days - Doctor Schroeder - that had invited him to come to Erusea. Apparently, the good doctor had some kind of propostion for him. But what anyone could possibly want from a defeated, middle-aged has-been like Lorenz baffled even the man himself.
He would not be kept waiting long for answer, however.
'Welcome, Lorenz.' said Doctor Schroeder, recieving him at what was once the main gate. 'Guards, leave us.'
Saying nothing, the armored guards only grunted inaudibly before departing.
'I trust my associates weren't too hard on you?'
'I've had worse.' Lorenz said, coughing out some sand from his parched throat.
Schroeder proferred him a small canteen, which Lorenz took gratefully. He unscrewed the lid and took a small sip, sloshing the liquid around his dried-up mouth. The water was warm and slightly stale, but to Lorenz, it felt positively refreshing.
'My thanks.' he said. 'How have you been, Doctor?'
'Well.'
'Heard you've been busy.'
'Much has happened in the last few years.' Schroeder reflected. 'And I've... done some things that I've come to regret.'
'Story of Belkan history.' Lorenz remarked dryly.
'Indeed. But now... we have a chance to make things right. Someone very important is building a new country around the Space Elevator in Selatapura. She is cleaning up the mess I made, and I owe it to her to do everything I can to help.'
'And what kind of help might that be?'
'A new country needs a new army.' Schroeder said bluntly. 'A corporation - General Resource - has her in their sights. If we don't step up and protect the Space Elevator, then all hope is lost.'
'I agree - General Resource is bad news.' Lorenz said, nodding. 'I encountered them while working in Estovakia. They are greedy and honorless scum. No sense of grace or subtlety, unlike us Belkans. We were competing with them at every turn over contracts and market share.'
Schroeder nodded sagely. 'And now we compete with them over the fate of all that is good and right in the world. That's where people like you come in, Lorenz.'
Lorenz smiled mirthlessly. 'I'm flattered that you sought me out, Doctor. But with respect, my talents are of no use to you. My time is over. I'm a pilot, but unfit to fly. I'm an engineer, but my knowledge is twenty-five years out of date. If either of those had been your proposition, then I'm sorry. You are wasting your time with me.'
'Your body is not needed now.' Schroeder said, his expression unchanged. 'Only your mind.'
Lorenz raised an eyebrow. 'What do you mean?'
The former Belkan scientist turned around and started walking. 'Right this way...'
Lorenz hobbled along behind him as they walked through the old base grounds. The whole place had a strange atmosphere. Between the rows of tents and in the ruins of buildings, men and women of all nationalities had gathered. They were civilians, mostly scientists and engineers, but there were also some in suits - with the air and demeanor of ex-government officials and business executives. A few of them shouted delighted greetings as Schroeder walked past, and he gave curt nods in return. They were definitely not military.
'You've drawn quite a crowd.' Lorenz observed. 'But many do not seem to be combatants. I thought this was supposed to be an army?'
'An army needs administrators.' Schroeder replied. 'As well as researchers and developers. And so I have drawn upon my old contacts - from Gründer, EASA, even Air Erusea. They all know what is at stake, and they have all offered their expertise. Over the longer term, we will soon be able to compete with General Resource itself in these fields. Perhaps even surpass them.'
Lorenz narrowed his eyes. 'It seems to me that you are building a corporation of your own.'
'If that's what it takes.' Schroeder said blankly.
'... Fair enough.'
Around them were more of those armored mercenary guards, their visored faces scanning the grounds for the faintest excuse to use their weapons. Others manned anti-aircraft emplacements, jutting upward into the sky, as if expecting an attack to come at any moment. A few of them tilted their heads in acknowledgement at Schroeder as they walked past, but largely ignored Lorenz.
'Security seems tight here.' Lorenz said.
'I would prefer for us not to be discovered.'
'Is that why you had a bag put over my head?'
'Of course.'
They arrived at a large hangar. Four more of Schroeder's hired goons, each built like silverback gorillas, obediently trundled open the massive steel doors as the pair approached, and Lorenz went inside.
Unlike the rest of the base, the hangar had power. Pale floodlights were shining from a cavernous ceiling, framework and ladders visible along the walls. A low hum was in the air, and a crude outline of a plane, vaguely triangular, had been marked on the ground with a thick yellow tape.
Cables extended from a rectangular hatch on the floor, with some of them going to a working table off to the side. At the desk were two large monitors and a buzzing, flashing hive of electronic equipment, operated by a team of sallow-looking labcoats.
However, most of the other cabling ran in the opposite direction - connected directly into the belly of a strange aircraft parked in the center with no discernable cockpit. Lorenz regarded it curiously. It was a curious design, its body sinuously-curved, with a wide V-tail and protruding, knife-like wings. The nose was shaped like a spade, or a duck's bill, slightly flattened at the bottom.
'That's... an aircraft.' Lorenz observed. 'But there's no cockpit. Is it a drone?'
'No.' Schroeder said, stepping in beside him. 'This aircraft requires a pilot.'
'I've never seen one like it.'
'Certainly not.' Schroeder replied, grinning slightly with restrained pride. 'This is a completely new design - one I designed myself, based on my research. I call it the YR-101 Delphinus.'
Lorenz's eyes widened. 'You designed and built this aircraft alone, by yourself?'
'Essentially. This example was manufactured by a repurposed drone factory, right here in the Salt Flats. The YR-101 is better described as a platform that demonstrates some of new technologies I had researched during my time with the EASA... and it is fully combat capable.'
'I don't believe it.'
'Then would you like to give it a try?'
Lorenz stared at him, like a cripple asked if he would like to run a mile. 'Now you're insulting me.'
Schroeder pursed his lips, looking mildly surprised at Lorenz's charge. 'I am not.' He gestured with an open hand at the waiting Delphinus. 'Go ahead. Enter the cockpit.'
Slowly, uncertainly, Lorenz ambled over to the strange new aircraft. The Delphinus exuded a bizarre, almost alien quality that made the old Belkan slightly wary of touching it. Its lines were smooth, smoother than any plane should have been, with no signs of joints or rivets. The whole frame seemed to have been crafted in one piece from some unknown alloy. A mild electrical current seemed to run across its surface, cool and tingly to the touch as it was.
An array of lights powered on a small hump on the aircraft's front, and swung open to reveal a cockpit. A sterile, almost medical smell came wafting out.
'This is a COFFIN system.' Lorenz remarked, slowly clambering up the access ladder and into the pristine cockpit. He settled in. There were no controls, no gauges or panels - only a single console with a single, blank display. 'But it's unlike anything I've seen before.'
'It is an improvement over current technology.' Schroeder said modestly. 'Lean back and close your eyes. Relax. The system will do the rest.'
Complying, Lorenz leaned back into the seat and took a deep breath as he shut his eyes. A glass bubble automatically lowered to cover the top of his head. The seat lowered and reclined backwards, until he was almost lying on his back, facing the brightly-lit ceiling.
Then the canopy lid came down with a whir of servos that sparked a pleasant sensation in the back of Lorenzo's neck, and the world went dark - but only for a moment. The illuminated hangar quickly returned, with his field of vision now overlaid by an array of crisp, hexagonal outlines. Curiously, there were also three large rings that seemed to laterally circle his view at different levels. A central console lit up, and smaller holographic displays were projected onto the canopy.
Somehow, Lorenz now felt as though he could feel the aircraft as an extension of his body. Flaps, ailerons, even weapons systems... he could feel them all like they were part of him. It was a feeling of power. One he had not felt in a long time... no, it was greater than that. The sensation was completely different. It was sharper. Purer. Invigorating. Almost as though he was alive again.
'... It feels good.' Lorenz said.
Suddenly, as if reacting to his thoughts, the Delphinus powered up. The engines whined into life. Disengaging the wheel brakes, he began to roll forward, taxiing out into the open. Lorenz was controlling it using nothing but his own neural inputs. Flexing his tailplanes, he steered through the taxiway, and was soon lined up at the runway.
Without waiting, Lorenz throttled up. There was a roar as the Delphinus' twin engines blazed their afterburners and launched the aircraft down the runway, kicking up billowing clouds of disturbed sand as it travelled and accelerated rapidly. Then, the voice of Doctor Schroeder crackled over the radio,
«Lorenz.» he said. «Your body is aged and weakened. Time and flesh have been unkind to you. But your mind is still sharp, and that is all my technology needs to restore your wings. And you will bring justice to this unjust world.»
Justice... yes, Lorenz had fought for justice once, a long time ago. At that time, the victor had not been justice. But now, life was giving him another chance to set things right. Another chance for justice to be served.
It was then that he realized what he had been searching for, all this time: another chance to do right for the world. And Doctor Schroeder had been the one to give to him.
Smiling, grinning, almost laughing, Lorenz Riedel pulled up and began to climb. The Delphinus rose and shot up into the sky like a bullet, before circling around and disappearing into the deep, dark blue beyond.
Windeen Lake
Independent State of Shilage, Western Usea
12 April 2020
'She doesn't know anything, Mr Park. Her own boss left her out of the loop.'
«Hrrmmph.»
Night had fallen over the lakeside hamlets, cold mist billowing up from the water's surface and blanketing the shores.
Abyssal Dision was in a bed on the upper floor of a cottage, with Yoko Martha Inoue's naked body entinwed around his bare, sculpted chest. She was fast asleep. The sheets were rank with sweat and other bodily emissions, and Dision's head was slightly spinning, basking in the afterglow of the vivid sensations; soft skin, urgency, and heat.
A part of him was almost glad he was on the phone without a camera, especially since he was talking to his boss; Gilbert Park.
'I could continue working her,' he said, controlling his voice so as to not wake Yoko. 'But in my professional opinion, that would no longer be an efficient use of my... skillset.'
Gilbert grumbled, coming through as a throb of static on the line.
«Then I suppose the return on this investment is not as high as I initially anticipated.» he said reluctantly, with great disappointment. «Pity. But very well - I'll trust your assessment.»
Dision breathed a sigh. 'Thank you. So what happens now?'
«We will find another way to answer the Schroeder question.» Gilbert said, still audibly unhappy. «In the meantime, Dision, I have another job for you.»
'I'm listening.'
«There are rumors of a former Osean pilot who now wastes away his days at a bar in San Salvacion. My sources have reason to believe that there is more than a little truth to these rumors. Your task will be to travel to San Salvacion, track this man down, and recruit him.»
'Recruit him?' Dision asked, not liking where this conversation was going.
«We don't have many ex-military people in the GRDF, and certainly not as pilots. Having just one could give us considerable perspective on their doctrines and operating methods, which would allow us to improve our own.»
'I don't need some military stiff telling me how to do my job.' Dision said tersely, feeling insulted and threatened at the same time.
«You might not, but others might.» Gilbert replied, as though he had already made his decision, and Dision knew full well that the man would never take "No" for an answer. «Make no mistake - you will remain our chief pilot, and he will answer to you.» he added, though coming across more as a token consolation than actual advice. «I trust you can handle him.»
'But, a drunken wreck...' Dision began.
«Has nothing left to lose.» Gilbert finished. «All you need to do is to help him to his feet, give him back his sense of pride and self-respect, and we will have his loyalty. You may use any means you see fit to accomplish this, and bring him to our side.»
Manipulative bastard... Dision sighed again, shaking his head gently at the crass cynicism of Gilbert's logic, and was once again reminded that he wouldn't be able to fight it.
'Consider it done, Mr Park.' he said, resignedly. 'I'll make travel arrangements first thing tomorrow morning.'
«Good. That will be all, Dision. You have a good night now.»
Dision hung up, and sighed for a third time. Going to San Salvacion to find a drunk in a bar... He scoffed. That was going to be harder than finding a thread hay in a stack of needles. At this point, he'd almost prefer going back to deceiving-
He glanced down at Yoko. She stirred gently with a peaceful expression on her soft, rounded face, hugging him tighter and nuzzling close.
Dision ran a hand through her smooth, red-dyed hair. He admonished himself for his foolishness; he'd rather wade through San Salvacion in search of drunks ten times over, than lead Yoko on for another minute on the web of lies he had been previously ordered to set up on her.
This was going to be the last night they would spend together. Tomorrow, she would return to the Space Elevator, where she would be safe under the watchful eyes of his fellow GR colleagues. She would remain there until such time that Dision's work was complete, at which point he quietly promised that he would return to her - no matter the cost.
But first...
Gingerly, gently, he unwound Yoko's body from around his own and slipped out of bed. Then, dressing himself without a sound, he left to find a way to get to San Salvacion...
End of Chapter THREE
Assault Record #3 - Lorenz Riedel
Aircraft: YR-101 Delphinus
Date of Birth: c. 1967
Nationality: Belkan
Dossier:
A veteran of the Belkan War. During the conflict, he followed his squadron into rebellion against both the Allied and Belkan forces, but was shot down by a mercenary ace pilot during the last days of fighting. He would later be quietly recruited by Gründer Industries and sent to Estovakia, where he assisted the Eastern Faction's ambitious Aerial Fleet program as both a pilot and engineer. However, he was eventually shot down again - this time by an Emmerian fighter ace.
These events had degraded his physical health to the point where he was determined to be unfit to fly. He travelled the world as a wandering vagrant, before finally being recruited into Doctor Schroeder's coalition, taking up arms against the machinations of General Resource.
Author's Notes:
▪ This chapter more clearly plants the seeds of the events of AC3, while also setting the stage for some real action. Stay tuned!