NationStates Jolt Archive

For those who hated it enough, paperwork was largely a thing of the past. Oh, sure, for the inescapable ceremonial documents an actual John Hancock was still required. Fountain pens still existed, damn them to eternal hellfire. But Richard Zheng, Director of Conquest Incorporated, was one of the leading warriors in the war on paper. Both literally, as his inability to get into the papers market at what he considered a reasonable price had prompted him to drive it into the ground, and... well, also literally, as he put pen to paper about as unfrequently as anyone with his net worth could.

Zheng stood, waving his hands seemingly at random through the air above his massive mahogany desk. From his perspective, however, he was wielding a digital stylus, whizzing through tables, activating and changing subroutines on the fly, sorting and comparing a half-dozen files at once. An experienced magnate, he had just hit his word processing stride as a soft, ephemeral tone pulsed twice quietly and seemingly from nowhere in particular. He let his hands fall disgustedly into his lap.

"Yes, Janet?"

"Your nine o'clock, sir," intoned the sultry, artificial voice of his secretarial AI.

Zheng grunted inquiringly.

"The Port Admiral, sir."

"Send him in."

A half-dozen artfully concealed weapons and a myriad of other, only vaguely less deadly security devices tracked Port Admiral Allan Thames as he entered the enormously well-decorated office. The considerable lethality surrounding him was not at all evident as Thames looked about him, beginning the trek across the gargantuan space. Though deep inside the armored megabulk of the largest non-residential corporate complex in the Mile High City, one would have thought that the room was amidst the towering alps. Sunlight, or what was about as close to sunlight as one could get without, y'know, a sun actually beaming rays of light, cascaded through windows easily two stories high, through which gleaming, snow-capped peaks we plainly visible.

All, sadly, an illusion, although head and shoulders above virtually any other commercially available illusion in the many and varied planes of existence, and all the universes therein. Money could indeed buy happiness, and also huge, floor-to-ceiling holo-displays that aped beautiful scenes from across the globe.

Thames finally came to a rest before the Director's desk. Bringing his heels together with a crack, he whipped his hand up to his cap in a salute surprising in its crispness, considering his inescapable portliness. “Good morning, sir.”

“Allan! So good to see you.” Zheng rose from his chair, and shook the admiral’s hand, choosing not to attempt a sloppy civilian reply to Thames’ military gesture. As cherished a servant and asset as the warrior was, time was money, and there was other work to be done, so the mogul forwent the customary small talk. “I read your memo, and I must say that I am intrigued. But frankly, what the hell could warrant such a massive- and costly- redeployment of our naval security assets?”

“If you would permit me, sir?” Thames produced a stylus from his uniform jacket’s pocket and looked questioningly at his superior.

“Of course.” A lazy wave of assent.

The soldier waved the device about, attracting the attention of the office’s media systems. A holographic interface leapt into existence before him, and he manipulated it until the desired visual aids hung overhead. “Frankly, sir, we are rapidly militarizing in the most outrageously public space that has ever existed. Sol is by far the most developed and heavily populated system that the human race has yet to come across, and its many denizens share finite space. Aside from the sheer difficulty of avoiding collisions with every idiot and his idiot in a space jalopy, there is absolutely no way whatsoever that we can conceal any construction from whomever would care to glance idly about them. Let alone the host of adversaries that our strategic initiatives may eventually create.”

Zheng nodded. His plans for the future were nothing if not… bold.

Thames indicated a representation of Earth’s orbital clutter. The hash of light codes was difficult to interpret, but certain things stood out. The Triumvirate’s Valhalla station, an array of horribly well (or sometimes just horribly) armed fleets and weapons platforms, and dozens of other threats and worries, to name a few. Tiny, alphanumeric codes sprang into being, encircling them. Someone’s battleship was tagged ‘Cop 0’, while someone else’s weapons satellite was classified ‘Cop 1’. This went on as Thames continued. “While none of these nations or organizations are actively belligerent towards us, or in many cases even aware of our particular existence, it would behoove us to keep in mind that every hull constructed by the Port Harris yards, and every inch of the Sky complexes are fully and plainly visible to every do-gooder, neo-fascist, communist and hippie on the planet. There’s simply no way to hide any of it. The construction is just too expansive.

“And admittedly, part of the problem is the scope of the construction itself. We’ve been sticking to our status as a non-entity, politically speaking, and its starting to sound a little strained. If we really are a ‘self-governing corporate entity’, a band of humble merchants, then there is no real reason to have a navy like that.” He turned and did something complicated with the stylus. The ships of the Conquest Incorporated Corporate Security Services flashed in their projected orbits, and were in their turn labeled with a ‘Robber’ code, distinguished from the ‘Cop’ ships by a crimson font, in contrast to the foreigners’ blue. Four hundred light cruisers and destroyers crowded around the orbital works, hovering menacingly. “Though our navy consists primarily of escorts thus far, they are large for their class, and more than we should need. Indeed, at the moment, more than we do need. It looks awfully suspicious. When the battlecruisers and battleships start coming out of the docks in a few months, it will look even worse. They’re fairly obvious in their yard berths right now, anyway.” Another gesture highlighted the much heavier combatants in various stages of completion in CI shipyards. “We don’t really have a justifiable reason for a navy at all, with our orbital fortifications, which are themselves excessive, and are not even finished yet.” Four of the defense platforms, each a massive, thick disk of weaponry five kilometers in diameter, flashed and received their ‘Robber’ designations. After a moment another three, as well as a much larger edifice, flashed as well.

“We need to limit our exposure here, sir. We need additional, non-Solar shipyards. The new yards that I propose would be dedicated exclusively to military output, so we could steer some of Port Harris’ capacity towards the civilian sector. Combined with the output from our existing civilian yards, we can bring our merchantmen strength up, and if we factor in the yards I propose, our overall military production would increase, despite the change in Port Harris’ priorities.” As he spoke, diagrams and charts leapt into being above and behind Thames, providing evidence and documentation for his points.

OOC: I know, I know. Ending right in the middle of a scene? Yes, I'm aware. But--such is life. Constant interruptions.

Zheng cracked his knuckles meditatively and sighed. "Space is not exactly a premium, the universe being as large as it is. But space near Sol must certainly is-- with humanity et all being around as long as it has, anything and everything worth mining, colonizing and terraforming within a reasonable distance has been somehow invested. But Allan," cut himself short with a gesture, "I am not telling you anything you do not know. Where are you suggesting we locate such a sensitive facility?"

Without a word, Thames again articulated a simple motion in the air, instructing the presentation system to display a particular file. The file, a stellar chart of near(relatively speaking)-Sol space, was translated from its chain of zeros and ones into a three-dimensional flood of light. Each star was a bright point, labeled with floating text. Thames very carefully found the region he was looking for, and tentatively pointed a finger at... nothing. Between two stars, light years from anything whatsoever, a place empty in the expanse of darkness between the light.

"I would like to call it Nowhere." Thames grinned boyishly.

The Director exhaled loudly, and sat back in thought, forefinger and thumb caressing his chin.

One of the many reasons, and perhaps the foremost after human greed, that private enterprise was the greatest system of rule was the ability for a select group of individuals to simply make a decision. It was this strategic agility that had permitted Conquest Incorporated to absorb the nations that had once existed where it now stood, and it was this agility that would allow it to continue to expand.

"Do it."

Earth Orbit

It had taken mere weeks to assemble the task force that would be responsible for the construction and protection of the new shipyards in Nowhere. As quietly as possible, crews had been informed to settle their affairs for the next six to eight months. These efforts had been vastly less compromising and publicized than they could have been – the CICSS had placed a high priority on automation at the outset and as crew sizes were continuously reduced in newer and more advanced construction, the personnel structure of the naval wing of the Corporate Security Services was very evidently a rather svelte one. That being said, great care was taken to ensure the secrecy of the 1st Task Group’s ultimate destination, and little more was made public than that several ships were being deployed for extended duty.

Those several ships were no mere convoy escorts, as had been most of the craft that Conquest Inc. had constructed. Two of the new Aeternum battleships, two squadrons of Excelsis battle cruisers and an equal number of Gloria light cruisers formed the escort for a convoy of supply ships, construction vessels, automated mining ships and a smattering of small personnel transports.

Rear Admiral Scott Turow, the 1st’s CO, had absolutely every right to be both hugely proud of himself and beamingly happy. This, his first command as a flag officer, had come shortly after his forty-fourth birthday. The first admirals of the CSS had largely been the experienced veterans of other peoples’ wars, hired away by the tantalizingly waved cash that Conquest Inc. had been able to offer. But as the CICSS continued to expand, and it became gradually comfortable with training its own officers, a new breed of young, aggressive, well-indoctrinated professionals emerged. Turow was just such a professional.

What rankled at the moment was his inability to command his features in a manner as professional as he would have liked. Indeed, he was struggling to retain a respectful tone in the presence of his superior officer, if ‘presence’ was the correct word, as the former was in fact aboard his flagship, the Acheron, while the latter was back in orbit aboard one of the Sky stations protecting Conquest Incorporated’s space-based infrastructure.

Port Admiral Allan Thames filled that role, and appreciated to the fullest the younger man’s frustration.

Turow had stopped to catch his breath halfway through his long winded official complaint, but now he continued. “Admiral. It’s not everyday you actually meet a Human Resources agent! You can go your whole career without seeing one! The sum of my previous experience with them was what I could cull from rumor and innuendo.” He grated his teeth. “Now I have three attached to my command staff. I feel entitled to know, as this effort’s commanding officer, just what is going on. I have not yet received an official explanation for their presence!”

Thames all but rolled his eyes. “You were issued time-sealed orders for a reason, Scott.”

“I know sir, I know. Operational security. But Admiral, this is beyond some silly technical detail! The most junior of them could demand anything of me, and I have no authority over them. They are unfettered by the typical chain of command – they are both outside and above it.”

Thames, distinctly nonplussed, let the pause in the dialogue grow and deepen, if only for a second or two. This point, and others that Turow was no doubt angered by, were covered in the briefing material that the younger man had been ordered to open after leaving the Solar system. But, he reflected, his concerns regarding the special operatives of Human Resources were understandable. They had every authority to supplant him without debate. Which would obviously rankle with an officer of Turow’s rank and temperament.

“Special Agent Sanger is going to be in charge of the completed Nowhere facility—”

“Sir! I was under the distinct impression—”

“You have been selected to lead the mission, but you will not run the yards themselves. That’s not what you were chosen for.” Seeing Turow calm somewhat, he continued. “Agent Ballard will be in charge of operational security, and will also work aboard the yard complex.”

Turow now seemed cautiously optimistic. “And what of Mr. Hicks?”

Thames spoke unreservedly and without apology. “Agent Hicks will remain onboard the Acheron.” His eyes narrowed. “Should he ask something of you, you will grant his every request. The operations that you will be conducting once your ships have been refitted demand a higher degree of direct control than is typical. Agent Hicks is the cost of landing the assignment of your relatively short career, Scott.”

Turow leaned back and let escape a tiny, barely noticeable sigh. There was nothing to argue – not that he would have argued with his patron and mentor. He had been within what he felt were his rights to ask for an explanation, and had received it. In the silence, both men felt the tension bleed away. “And what would that assignment entail, Admiral?” The younger officer smiled a mischievous little smile.

Thames, Turow’s father’s boyhood friend and Turow’s godson, let rip a bark of laughter. “Rapscallion! Disappear!”

“Yes, sir.” Turow snapped a salute and deactivated the terminal in his personal cabin. Gazing at the wall mounted screen that depicted what would have been the view of the heavens that he might have enjoyed had modern starships incorporated windows, he sat in thought.

Shortly thereafter, his light battlegroup and its civilian wards defied Einsteinian physics, leaping into hyperspace and making their way at faster than light speeds toward a place called Nowhere.