006. Hope jerry don't mind us DROPPIN in
Huu felt himself walking on clouds.
Everything was coming up aces. His body was light, he was happy, the entire universe was going to be glorious.
~Money money money~
He chortled to himself as he sat in his cottage.
So much work, so much greatness, who even knew what was going to happen past this point? Not him!
But!
But, he was going to make losses, the full losses would deposit 20,000kr into his account for personal use. Money he could use for whatever he wanted with no worries, no concerns. Then more funds next cycle for him to make even more losses.
Hehehehehe.
It had been four hours since the tour and he still couldn't stop chortling.
For once in his life, it was like everything had... wait no. That was a lie, there were lots of times where everything just lined up. Smooth sailing. Then there were times when everything went to hell, but today was not that day!
He had no idea why... or how, but it was just how things worked... sometimes.
Actually. Now that he thought about it, this is where things should be falling apart.
...
Wait for it.
...
Wait for it.
...
Nothing.
Things were going to come up~
-BAM BAM BAM-
Jerking upwards, then falling off his chair. Forgetting that it was leaning on two legs, Huu rubbed the back of his head.
Right.
Forgot.
Again.
Climbing onto his feet, he made his way to the door, trying to suppress the dull ache of pained skull as he did so.
What was going on here, it wasn't like anyone came to his place... ever. Besides his parents of course. He wasn't important enough to need meetings, not outgoing enough to have friends, too lazy to go outside. Just what did the knocker want him for?
Oh right, the business.
Forgot.
Opening the door, the first thing that entered his eyes was the apologetic face of Glory Brantzollen.
He assumed it was apologetic, he didn't want to think the abashed smile was her happy about interrupting his after-work hours.
Behind her however was a giant of a man. With a french nose (what did that even mean?), a beret on his head complete with a teal square over the number 91314. Which meant... uh... square was for infantry and the number was the unit label... so.
Infantry Regiment 91314?
Right.
"Huu here. How can I. Fuck. snooooort. Gimmi a sac."
His suave introduction was cut off as the air full of plant sex juices entered his nose. In the rush he forgot to put on even a fabric mask and was now feeling the effects. Nose running, eyes crying, a complete block of everything but his now swelling throat for breathing. His body determinitely saying 'fuck no' to whatever was being offered in the back alleys of Blackjack's air.
Fuck.
Turning back into the house, the suffering teen blew out his nose, put on a fabric mask (that he vowed to wash as soon as this was done), before walking back outside. Still suffering, but at least he could communicate.
"Right, sorry about that. What's going on, it's after work hours. Why are you here?"
Any attempt at pretending to be cool in front of a soldier went out the window. It would have to be when they could see the puffy red nose, the running nose juices, bloodshot eyes, and general inflammation across the face.
Not pretty at all. Dignity taken out behind the shed and shot.
"We've received HPG messages inquiring about the 2-pdr gun and Universal Carrier." Huu paused at Glory's words.
What?
He was poleaxed. Befuddled. Confused. Shocked. The whole kiboshed.
"Word has gotten out faster than we thought possible. Your design is a hit sir. We do have the problem however of that someone might try to steal a march on the competition by aiming for you. Hauptmann Brutus of the 91314th Militia regiment is here to organise your protection."
What?
+_+
Sitting glumly inside of his cottage, Huu thought hard. As Glory left after delivering the introducing the Hauptman, heading off to collect the HPG messages, Huu was left to blow his nose and ask 'what the hell?' to himself.
Where had everything gone wrong?
He tried to mindmap it out, but was stuck at the beginning.
2-pdr gun.
Why was it popular? He couldn't understand.
Worse, his thoughts were being interrupted by the sounds of heavy machinery in the background, all around, surround sound.
The local militia regiment (local as in located 2 hours from his cottage) were digging in. Infantry squads were being bawled out by their Sergeants, who were bawling with extra volume and emphasis today. The Senior Sergeant Major with his gold triangle was here. Things were just that important.
Huu didn't know that of course, he just heard the sounds of shouting and digging and 'siiiiiir's that filled his ears. An entire militia battalion was here, nearly 1,000 men.
Here to protect him.
Because the 2-pdr design was so valuable that everyone with half a brain was here to find him.
Why?
What?
Who?
When?
How?
Another knock on his door and Huu masked up. Whoever this was, maybe they had the answers he needed.
"Sir, I've brought the initial HPG messages. I pass on Hauptman Brutus' apologies for the inconvenience of his presence, we weren't expecting such a rush." Glory stepped through the door, looking perfectly coiffed as she always did.
"Right. Right. Why HPG messages? Are they trying to buy our guns? The shipping must be absurd. Weren't we trying to market this for the militia, why does anyone off planet want the gun?" He asked, words spilling out in a torrent.
"I'm aware that you produced this weapon out of a desire to assist Blackjack's militia. You've said so multiple times, sir. However, this 2-pdr is the first low-tech weapon that has been produced in the Commonwealth in nearly 300 years. I hear the word 'retro-tech' has been thrown around by the milita outside. You must understand, sir, they are not interested in buying the guns. This is interest in purchasing the designs."
Huu struggled to think of a reply. That didn't answer much at all? Still, a lifeline, one he seized with the strength of a man on the verge of drowning. Like all men do when underwater. Maybe not women. Teenage Huu was very gullible, especially when it came to what his mother said regarding women. Even with two lifetimes that hadn't changed.
"But we don't own the designs? Doesn't Dobless Information Services have that information anyway? It's stuff from 1940, the patents ran out ages ago. They keep records on everything, like they have one hundred billion books stored right there in Lott." Huu's mouth was trying to keep up with his racing mind, it wasn't working as well as he would have liked, better than he feared.
Taking the computer screen, he was inundated from messages from across the Commonwealth. All were essentially asking to purchase sample copies of the 2-pdr for posterity's sake. As well as asking to measure the original equipment to make their own machinery to produce the guns...
Right.
Right.
That's not so bad. They weren't going to buy his guns, even better they just wanted to measure the factory machines. Machines that weren't even his anymore! They belonged to the museum and had been returned there not long ago. The lease ran out, no way for him to make profits from them. Even better production hadn't started yet, so they couldn't purchase samples even if they wanted to! Land, measure, and go home!
Salvation.
That was a load of stress off his back.
"We've also had inquiries from the militia regarding the cost of the 2-pdr." And the stress was right back.
+_+
The system forbade Huu from selling things at a loss. Prices had to be set at a minimum, 10% above cost, with a maximum of 100% above cost. He pondered the issue in the cottage, Glory leaving to organise something at Eggers Armaments
In the words of the system,
++ Real Tycoons do not rent seek! Real Tycoons provide goods and services at reasonable prices or they are profiteers! ++
The system made it rather clear that if he tried to lose money by selling things at a discount, it was going to result in a warning. Three warnings in a cycle and he would lose the System.
So.
Costs.
The labour cost was 22,500kr for ten apprentices and five journeymen in a one month period.
Rent was 1000kr a month.
Materials 2000kr a month to produce the materials and fuel.
The machinists had told him they would be able to produce 50 guns a month from the available machinery.
So it would cost roughly 510 kroner to produce one gun.
The most expensive he could sell them for then was 1020 kroner, the cheapest 561.
The choice was obvious then, sell it as cheaply as possible to make as little profit as possible!
561 Kroner for one gun.
Also ammunition.
Um.
Checking, checking... maximum production would see tens of thousands of rounds at a minimum... at 1kr each.
Cheap cheap.
1.1kr per round.
Wait. This didn't include the Universal Carrier! That was included in the materials and labour cost too!
Huu was now having a mental panic, as he always did when it came to doing any sort of mathematics.
Hands clutching his skull he finally decided 'fuck this' and gave a single price for the gun and the carrier.
1000 Kroner...? ? ? aaaand no warning.
Fuck yes.
1000 Kroner for both the gun and the tractor-thing. 1.1 kroner per round of ammunition.
Fuel only included when leaving the factory!
Done and done.
Cheap as chips, so cheap that it wouldn't make him any profits. He would need to sell 200 sets to break even. The militia had their own weapons, why would they even bother with more than 10 guns? He was probably going to make less losses this month, but it should be fine? A few souvenir guns to sell, probably nobles getting in on the fad. They would get bored soon enough.
Even better he could just let other people produce the ammunition, so he wouldn't have to... which would mean cutting off that avenue for profits as well. If he wasn't drawing attention to himself, all the attention should blow over soon and he could get back to making losses in peace.
Right?
It was that damned Sille M. Villadsen nee Mardsen! Her little 'news' segment had made him famous and everyone was trying to ride that fame.
In the worst case scenario he was going to make profits in these six months.
But!
But, once the hype died down, there would be less people trying to buy his guns. It should be better in the next cycle. Much easier to lose your fame when there were hundreds of worlds in the Lyran Commonwealth with billions upon billions of people. There would be a better story coming soon. He wasn't all that special to begin with, why focus on him at all? Why couldn't that reporter leave him alone?
Stabbing him in the back after he had brought her around on a pro-bono tour.
What Hero of the Commonwealth? What conscientious industrialist?
The sheer audacity of the lies was she feeding the Commonwealth. Worse still, why were people believing her? Were they all so gullible? Where had the cynical and thoughtful Lyran stereotype gone? Society was breaking down around his ears.
He had no idea how things had gotten this far, had no idea why his life was going so far out of control.
But!
He kept repeating the word. He was an optimist.
Checking the I Ching
- Heavy are the clouds, laden with rain, they threaten to wash away the crown -
Fuuuuuuck.
Why was everything going against him right now?
Right.
He was going to take a nap, and everything would be better when he woke up.
Shooting through the prices he had just worked out to Glory and passing all authority for the blueprint measurements off to his parents, Huu with great determination...
Tried to fall asleep.
Right.
Relax when you're trying to sleep, not tense up.
+_+
Baroness Katherine Eggers had, using her influence, seeded the area around the defensive camp that had sprung up around her son with retainers.
For all his impulsiveness and grand plans, she hadn't thought he would be doing something that would draw attention to him in such a ridiculous manner. Especially not when producing a gun outdated before her ancestor's ancestor's spunk had even been shot into a test tube and frozen.
Granted, she hadn't thought much of her ancestor's museum beyond it being a cultural heritage site. Now? Now there was going to be quite the problem with the rush of individuals coming to the museum. Trying to get measurements, talking to each other in a grand machinist convention. They would be bringing noble and corporate security with them and it was going to be an unholy mess. The space port didn't even have enough berths for 6 dropships, not even thinking of the dozens that were arriving.
Probably trying to steal a march on the others by producing the dozens of different gun pieces that were present in the museum in the hopes they would have the same magic touch.
"German guns for German people," her husband muttered. Snorting to himself as he paraphrased the forwarded message. Their son had referred all the messages to his parents. Smart or dumb, Phan couldn't decide. Here was a chance to make money through the nose, just lease the machinery out again and sell it. But instead he had returned the original machines and was refusing to profit off the blueprints. What his son was planning he had no idea... or perhaps it was whoever was backing his son.
The investigation into the banking details had come up empty, a mystery account that had only come into existence the morning Huu had come up with his investment plan. Something that filled Phan with a great deal of uncertainty. Just what was going on with his planet?
"Put a trademark on that slogan if they haven't already. You know that's going to be the brand of a new company in a few weeks. British Guns, French Guns, American Guns. Maybe not Japanese guns. Actually, they might be a big deal around New Kyoto... but you know they're going to try to market these to militias. Make some money from cultural appeal."
Phan grinned, time to lighten the mood with some of his patented Phan charm.
"I always had a way with words. Just like that time when we found out you were carrying Huu."
"Don't say it." She warned.
"Did you know Eggers is two letters away from Preggers?"
She gave a long, exasperated sigh. That one sentence had shrivelled up her ovaries. Her body refused to have another child after hearing that joke of a joke. 17 years later and they still refused, just in case his jokes were genetic.
"I'm planning to license out the blueprints. One hundred thousand kroner per session to measure one piece of machinery." Forcibly changing the subject, Katherine turned away from her husband with disgust. It would make money, a great deal of it. Enough to potentially increase her rank to Duke. A cultural Duke, which held much less power than an agricultural or industrial Duke, and definitely inferior to a planetary Duke. But a Duke all the same.
Face straightening, Phan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His complete inability to grow passable facial hair fortunately, had been passed to his son. No son of his was going to grow a beard if he couldn't.
"I've passed on word I need all the assistance I can get. We're going to get a flood of spies on the next dropship down, I can tell you that much."
"Yours or others?"
"Both, a spy bonanza. Maybe there will even be a few spy babies popping out in a nine months to make it all that much more complicated."
Katherine made a face.
"It's amazing what one sentence can do isn't it?" She finally continued after a period of silence.
Phan nodded. For such a mercantile nation, the Lyran Commonwealth was awash in mysticism. So proud of their cynicism, so dismissive of Comstar's religious trappings, and yet so bound in myth and mystery.
Like the legend of the Black Pearl, an actress, turned mechwarrior, who held off a Kuritan advance on her own in her Battlemaster. Buying time for her unit to retreat. Dying when her cockpit was turned to scrap by the combined fire of a lance of Draconis Combine battlemechs. Yet, when the Kuritan commander marched up to inspect such a valiant foe, the Battlemaster's hand rose on its own accord, firing the small lasers into the cockpit and killing the Commander. The Kuritans did not stop firing this time until the Battlemaster was a pool of molten metal.
Now, whenever a soldier sees the Black Pearl or her Battlemaster in a vision on the eve of battle, the unit understands that victory rides on their shoulders.
They would not lose.
Hearing the words spirit in the machine had seen every machinist refuse to build the gun designs from the freely available blueprints. It had to be a direct copy of the original gun making machines.
They had to measure it with their own two hands.
Only in this way could the spirit in the original machine, over a thousand years old, could enter their bodies, and be imparted into the newly forged tools.
If this process was not carried out, there would be wide-spread rejection from buyers, there was no spirit in these guns they would say. Worse, what if the guns were not up to spec? Was it because the spirit world rejected these imposter children of the original? As perfectly as they might resemble the originals, they were not equal.
So the procession of machinists would be making their way over now.
Some, no many, in the Combine would laugh at their superstition.
But when twice Tharkad had been hit with an earthquake before the inaugeration of an inauspicious ruler... even the most bone headed sat up and took notice. When providence had as much to play in the success of the Commonwealth as their corporations and people, even the most skeptical consulted the spirits occassionally.
Still, Phan was hoping they were polite, he wasn't looking forward to the sheer mass of humanity that would turn the quiet area into a bazaar. Even if it would be a treasure trove of information gathering.
Katherine meanwhile was still trying to keep her son safe. The manpower involved with ferreting out those approaching with ill intention was significant. All family retainers that were bolstered by the militia regiment assisting in the search. The battalion around Huu's cottage was the last line of defence, her men the second. The road wardens and spaceport guards the first.
The Commando 2Ds that she had in her service were running constant patrols.
None would hurt her boy.