The Complete Legacy Trilogy: Star Corps, Battlespace, Star Marines. Ian Douglas
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And you won’t show a profit spraying newdollars around like water.”
“Believe me, Dr. Hanson, when I say that there is a great deal of profit to be made in a new market, an entire new world market, for this company. I can offer you, oh, let’s say an even one hundred million. That’s five million per objective year, and I assure you that the profit potential for an entire world is many times greater than that.”
“That is an interesting point, Mr. Buckner,” Ramsey, the Marine colonel, said. His hands were clasped together on the desk before him, and his eyes were like gray ice. “A fascinating point. What is it about a planet that makes it so worth PanTerra’s attention?”
“What do you mean? An entire planet. Do you have any idea what the gross domestic product of the Earth is right now, Colonel?”
The Marine showed a cold smile. “Large. But that’s not the point. I’ve done some research, sir, into the economics of interstellar trade. I think both Dr. Hanson and I would be most interested in just what it is you expect to find in the Llalande system that could be worth such a whopping big investment on your part.”
“Well, the trade alone with the Ahannu—”
“Isn’t enough, sir. The Llalande system has no raw materials that our own system doesn’t have in vast abundance. We’ve barely begun to tap the raw material resources of our own asteroid and Kuiper belts, and the nickel, iron, and heavy metals we find right here in our own backyard are just as good as anything we could haul back across eight light-years, and a hell of a lot cheaper. Native products? The Ahannu are primitives, millennia behind us in technology. There would certainly be a market for Ahannu artwork and crafts … but nothing worth the cost of shipping them eight light-years.”
“There is one commodity, Colonel, that always pays in the long run,” Buckner said. “Knowledge. Information. You’re right, of course. We may never have merchant ships plying the galactic trade routes. But the knowledge we could pick up from an entire new, alien culture is staggering, and literally incalculable.
“Consider. Knowledge of the fact that there has already been contact between the Ahannu and humans, in our own prehistory, has utterly transformed the way we think about ourselves, how we think about our place among the stars. The new philosophical insights, the new religions—”
“Have already been more trouble than they’re worth,” Traci put in. “I’ll grant you that knowledge is the one transportable resource that might make interstellar trading worthwhile. But you can send information by FTL comm or even laser or old-fashioned radio. Why do you need to send people out there?”
“To get the information, of course.” Buckner sighed, crossing his arms. “AIs are still limited in what they can do, especially in a situation involving an alien species. If you don’t want the job, there’s nothing more we can do about it. I have other contacts, other agencies. Perhaps we could approach Dr. Chaumont, at the Institute Française Xenobiologique. …”
“Damn it, Dr. Hanson,” Robinson said, half rising from his chair. “Consider what you’re doing!”
Traci could see that her department head had a pretty hefty stake in this affair as well. If PanTerra went to the EU, the institute might lose grant money … or worse, prestige.
She still didn’t like it. Colonel Ramsey had a point: PanTerra was being just a little too free with their money, and she had the feeling there was more to the corporate giant’s interest in Ishtar than they were willing to admit.
On the other hand … a hundred million newdollars, and the chance to write her own ticket when she returned? There was such a thing as too good to be true … and such a thing as too good to pass up. This was literally the chance of a lifetime.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Don’t get your underwear in a twist. I can hardly pass this one up, can I?”
“Excellent,” Buckner said. “I knew we could count on you, Dr. Hanson. You won’t be sorry.”
Traci smiled as she shook his hand, but the smile was forced. She found herself trusting Buckner about as far as she could throw him in a ten-g field.
Just how long would it be before she was sorry?
9
25 JUNE 2138
Recruit Sick Bay
U.S. Marine Corps Recruit Training Center
Parris Island, South Carolina
0800 hours ET
“Sir, Recruit Garroway, reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Have a seat, recruit,” the Navy corpsman, a hospitalman first class, said, gesturing at the white-draped table. “We’ll be right with you.” The man’s data badge gave his name as HM1 D. LOGAN.
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Drop the ‘sir’ crap,” Logan said. “I work for a living.”
Garroway sat on the table, watching apprehensively as the corpsman passed a small, handheld device in front of his head and torso. A monitor on the console nearby displayed Garroway’s vital signs: temperature, pulse, respiration, blood pressure, EEG output, and cyberneural feed frequencies.
“Corrective optic nano?”
“Yes …”
“We’ll write you a scrip for glasses.”
Garroway had no idea what that word meant, though the context suggested something to correct his nearsighted vision. He suppressed an urge to do a search on the net; Parris Island was shielded from regular library services, and he didn’t have the codes to navigate the base military data stores.
“Your heart rate’s a bit high,” Logan said. “And your BP is up.”
“Of course they are,” Garroway replied stiffly. “I’m … scared.”
It was an honest response, at least. He’d thought about what he was doing thoroughly, as his DI had suggested, and in the end decided he had no choice but to go through with this. But of course he had second thoughts … and third … and fourth. He’d spent the last thirty minutes standing in formation outside the medcenter, waiting as one member of his company after another vanished into the building.
Thirty minutes to reflect on whether he really wanted to go through with this.
But the thought of pulling out now, of transferring to another service—or, infinitely worse, of going back home to Guaymas—was far more disagreeable. Besides, if he wanted to be a Marine, this was his path.
“Scared? Of the procedure?” The corpsman grinned. “I thought you wanted to be a big, rough, tough Marine?”
“Hey—”
Logan shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. Most guys make it through okay. Just remember that … if you feel strange, y’know? It’s all up here.” He tapped the side of his head. “You can think your way through and come out fine. How many channels you got?”
“Four hundred eighty.”
“Library feed?”
“Local Hermosillo Node, and a direct feed from GlobalNet Data.”
“Ow. That’ll hurt, losing all that. Pretty hot stuff. Full graphic capability? Visual overlay?”
“Yes …”
“And comm, of course. What kind of math coprocessor?”
“Sony-TI 12000. Series Two, with nonlinear math processing. Extensions for hypertrig, Calculus Four, and polylogmatics.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’re going to be counting on your fingers