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Hargreaves had asked the pilot to detour over Plex Anthill so that he could see firsthand the devastation that the battle had wrought..
It was awesome. Battered hulks of armored vehicles dotted the landscape around the base, which itself, from the air, looked to be largely piles of rubble. In the harbor, and offshore, could be seen the wrecks of transport ships and warships, and even this many hours after the cease fire columns of smoke still spiraled lazily into the early morning air from damaged vehicles and destroyed buildings..
As they overflew the airbase, he could see the devastation caused by the artillery bombardment and by the bombing and strafing runs. He saw a Morgan transport taxiing around the potholes in the synthcrete runway getting ready to disgorge its load of garrison troops ready to assume command of the base.
A veteran of several Spartan engagements, Basil couldn’t remember ever before seeing so much destruction.
The contrast with Morgan Processing was indescribable.
As they approached over the vast solar arrays that defined Morgan Energy Monopoly, and began their descent to Processing, Basil was awed by the sheer ostentation of the Morganites.
‘Only they’, he thought, ‘could cover a continent and its oceans with solar mirrors and tidal energy harnesses.’
He reviewed his notes as they began their final descent.
The base had a population of just over 70,000 and while as a Morgan base it had a high cyclical output of 10 nutrients, 10 minerals and, as was to be expected, 47 energy credits. As he keyed in his data he saw that it would be less productive as a Spartan base. The nutrients took a tumble to only 4, and the energy to 7, but the minerals really accelerated up to 18. As he ran the simulations, Basil noted that he would need to divert human capital to foster the talents, to keep the drone problems manageable in the immediate future.
He called up the file on the Base Manager, one Cecil Krantzenstein.
Re-elected manager in the gubernorial elections of 2222, with two remaining years to serve in his current term. Ran on a platform of strong base infrastructure, and received over 70% of the vote.
Probe reports and scuttlebutt say that he was a reluctant convert to the directional change of a few weeks ago whereby many of the bases rush-built their production quotas and retooled for military upgrading. Not a favorite of CEO Morgan’s nor of Morgan Jr.
Hargreaves resolved to have an early meeting with Cecil and try to convince him to stay on.
He’d need some garrison troops. He’d sent word to the 469th before he left asking them to “drop in” to Morgan Processing after he’s taken office, and they would give him a strong counter-Yang presence in case the Hive got nasty.
And he’d given a lot of thought to renaming the base. He knew from Googlie’s files that he and Burge had talked about new base names, and wanted to get back into the mainstream Spartan philosophy and away from Santiago’s late fixation with esoteric names. Burge’s preference for the next base was one that Basil liked.
Morgan Processing would become Ruby Ridge Memorial.
As the Spartan Government needlejet came in low for its landing, Hargreaves couldn’t help but be impressed at the opulence of the Morgan base.
There seemed to be no base facility that was wanting, and there were some that from the air Basil didn’t recognize at all.
He glanced at his commlink reader and scanned the list that he had been sent.
Childrens Creche
Recycling Tanks
Recreation Commons
Energy Bank
Network Node
Hologram Theatre
Tree Farm
Hybrid Forest
Habitation Complex
Centauri Preserve
“Hmmmm. I wonder what that last one is”, he thought. “I must pay an early visit.”
Then the bonus. Morgan Processing was the home of one of Morgan’s Special projects – The Weather Paradigm.
As the jet came in from the east, he saw to the south, in the bay, the four great tidal harnesses that generated much of the base’s energy. With typical Morgan efficiency, kelp farms had been established along their superstructure to provide added nutrients for the base population.
To the north were the huge solar collectors that were in the Base’s zone of control, forming part of the massive aray that stretched as far as the eye could see to the northeast.
On the base’s southwestern boundary stood a massive farm, with its neat rows of fruits trees and vegetables supplemented by the greenhouses and hydroponic tanks that kept the oxygen level and temperature constant.
The base’s sensor array could be seen to the northwest, by the airport.
What was impressive was that all the remaining land contained within the base’s zone of control was forested. “Probably part of their tree farm and hybrid forest development,” he thought.
They swept into a perfect landing and taxied to the administration building.
As the needlejet’s retractable exitway deployed, Basil saw hurrying towards the doors a somewhat portly figure impeccably attired in a dark blue synthsilk suit, with a white cotton analogue shirt adorned with a cheery red polka dot tie. He had a matching handkerchief in his hand with which he mopped beads of sweat that developed periodically on his forehead and upper lip. His shoes were shining black, of some synthleather that took a mirror like shine.
As Basil descended, the awaiting Morganite stuck out his hand awkwardly.
“Cecil Krantzenstein at your service. You must be Basil Hargreaves?”
“The very same,” replied Basil. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“This way, please,” he said, indicating a limorover that was waiting nearby. “I’ve vacated my offices for you, and I’ll take you right there.”
“Okay,” Basil replied. “But I may be more comfortable with an office suite in one of your hotels. I imagine you’ll still need your office as Manager.”
“As Manager?” Cecil asked. “You don’t wanrt to supplant me and impose military or police rule?”
“Not at all,” replied Basil. In The Spartan Federation we have Base Governors – a sort of political appointment – and Base Administrators, elected by the populace, who run the Base. I would expect you to remain with the Base Administrator title, to do what you’ve always done, and to brief me in how your customs differ from ours, and what your people will expect as Spartan Citizens with a Morgan background.”
Cecil positively beamed.
“Splendid,” he said. “I should like that very much. I’ll arrange for an office suite to be reserved at the Local Morgan Hilton. I’ll do that right away.”
He flipped his commlink open, and barked a few orders into it, then flicked it shut.
“It will take an hour or so. Would you like a tour of the base in the way in?”
“That’s be useful,” said Basil. “I’d especially like you to explain to me and to see your Centauri Preserve. I’m familiar with all your other base facilities, but have never come across this before.”
“It’d be my pleasure,” said Cecil, giving the limo driver the appropriate instructions.
Basil sank back in the comfort of the seats to enjoy the ride.
It was awesome. Battered hulks of armored vehicles dotted the landscape around the base, which itself, from the air, looked to be largely piles of rubble. In the harbor, and offshore, could be seen the wrecks of transport ships and warships, and even this many hours after the cease fire columns of smoke still spiraled lazily into the early morning air from damaged vehicles and destroyed buildings..
As they overflew the airbase, he could see the devastation caused by the artillery bombardment and by the bombing and strafing runs. He saw a Morgan transport taxiing around the potholes in the synthcrete runway getting ready to disgorge its load of garrison troops ready to assume command of the base.
A veteran of several Spartan engagements, Basil couldn’t remember ever before seeing so much destruction.
The contrast with Morgan Processing was indescribable.
As they approached over the vast solar arrays that defined Morgan Energy Monopoly, and began their descent to Processing, Basil was awed by the sheer ostentation of the Morganites.
‘Only they’, he thought, ‘could cover a continent and its oceans with solar mirrors and tidal energy harnesses.’
He reviewed his notes as they began their final descent.
The base had a population of just over 70,000 and while as a Morgan base it had a high cyclical output of 10 nutrients, 10 minerals and, as was to be expected, 47 energy credits. As he keyed in his data he saw that it would be less productive as a Spartan base. The nutrients took a tumble to only 4, and the energy to 7, but the minerals really accelerated up to 18. As he ran the simulations, Basil noted that he would need to divert human capital to foster the talents, to keep the drone problems manageable in the immediate future.
He called up the file on the Base Manager, one Cecil Krantzenstein.
Re-elected manager in the gubernorial elections of 2222, with two remaining years to serve in his current term. Ran on a platform of strong base infrastructure, and received over 70% of the vote.
Probe reports and scuttlebutt say that he was a reluctant convert to the directional change of a few weeks ago whereby many of the bases rush-built their production quotas and retooled for military upgrading. Not a favorite of CEO Morgan’s nor of Morgan Jr.
Hargreaves resolved to have an early meeting with Cecil and try to convince him to stay on.
He’d need some garrison troops. He’d sent word to the 469th before he left asking them to “drop in” to Morgan Processing after he’s taken office, and they would give him a strong counter-Yang presence in case the Hive got nasty.
And he’d given a lot of thought to renaming the base. He knew from Googlie’s files that he and Burge had talked about new base names, and wanted to get back into the mainstream Spartan philosophy and away from Santiago’s late fixation with esoteric names. Burge’s preference for the next base was one that Basil liked.
Morgan Processing would become Ruby Ridge Memorial.
As the Spartan Government needlejet came in low for its landing, Hargreaves couldn’t help but be impressed at the opulence of the Morgan base.
There seemed to be no base facility that was wanting, and there were some that from the air Basil didn’t recognize at all.
He glanced at his commlink reader and scanned the list that he had been sent.
Childrens Creche
Recycling Tanks
Recreation Commons
Energy Bank
Network Node
Hologram Theatre
Tree Farm
Hybrid Forest
Habitation Complex
Centauri Preserve
“Hmmmm. I wonder what that last one is”, he thought. “I must pay an early visit.”
Then the bonus. Morgan Processing was the home of one of Morgan’s Special projects – The Weather Paradigm.
As the jet came in from the east, he saw to the south, in the bay, the four great tidal harnesses that generated much of the base’s energy. With typical Morgan efficiency, kelp farms had been established along their superstructure to provide added nutrients for the base population.
To the north were the huge solar collectors that were in the Base’s zone of control, forming part of the massive aray that stretched as far as the eye could see to the northeast.
On the base’s southwestern boundary stood a massive farm, with its neat rows of fruits trees and vegetables supplemented by the greenhouses and hydroponic tanks that kept the oxygen level and temperature constant.
The base’s sensor array could be seen to the northwest, by the airport.
What was impressive was that all the remaining land contained within the base’s zone of control was forested. “Probably part of their tree farm and hybrid forest development,” he thought.
They swept into a perfect landing and taxied to the administration building.
As the needlejet’s retractable exitway deployed, Basil saw hurrying towards the doors a somewhat portly figure impeccably attired in a dark blue synthsilk suit, with a white cotton analogue shirt adorned with a cheery red polka dot tie. He had a matching handkerchief in his hand with which he mopped beads of sweat that developed periodically on his forehead and upper lip. His shoes were shining black, of some synthleather that took a mirror like shine.
As Basil descended, the awaiting Morganite stuck out his hand awkwardly.
“Cecil Krantzenstein at your service. You must be Basil Hargreaves?”
“The very same,” replied Basil. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“This way, please,” he said, indicating a limorover that was waiting nearby. “I’ve vacated my offices for you, and I’ll take you right there.”
“Okay,” Basil replied. “But I may be more comfortable with an office suite in one of your hotels. I imagine you’ll still need your office as Manager.”
“As Manager?” Cecil asked. “You don’t wanrt to supplant me and impose military or police rule?”
“Not at all,” replied Basil. In The Spartan Federation we have Base Governors – a sort of political appointment – and Base Administrators, elected by the populace, who run the Base. I would expect you to remain with the Base Administrator title, to do what you’ve always done, and to brief me in how your customs differ from ours, and what your people will expect as Spartan Citizens with a Morgan background.”
Cecil positively beamed.
“Splendid,” he said. “I should like that very much. I’ll arrange for an office suite to be reserved at the Local Morgan Hilton. I’ll do that right away.”
He flipped his commlink open, and barked a few orders into it, then flicked it shut.
“It will take an hour or so. Would you like a tour of the base in the way in?”
“That’s be useful,” said Basil. “I’d especially like you to explain to me and to see your Centauri Preserve. I’m familiar with all your other base facilities, but have never come across this before.”
“It’d be my pleasure,” said Cecil, giving the limo driver the appropriate instructions.
Basil sank back in the comfort of the seats to enjoy the ride.
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