A moment later the three alien ships popped out of the jump point, and, again, the Wasp quickly disposed of them.
“They are out there. They hate our very existence. They want us dead. They failed once. They will try again. Tell me, ladies and gentlemen, what are you doing here in a beleaguered outpost and exactly how do you intend to make money?”
The little guy who had claimed to be their appointed spokesman didn’t say a word. Neither did the other men.
Finally, a young woman said, “We figured we could begin trading with the Alwans. Our trade goods for their raw materials.”
“The Alwans do not want our trade goods,” Amanda said. “They see their needs as minimal above subsistence. There are gold and silver deposits that they have found on the surface. They have used them to make jewelry and trinkets. They consider a shiny glass trinket just as valuable as gold. They also do not want us mining their territory.”
“We’ll create markets. They have TV. We can advertise,” a man put in.
“Over half of them don’t believe what they see on TV. Even if you can create a market for your trade goods, how do you intend to have the Alwans pay for them?”
“Money?”
Now Jacques stepped in. “The Alwans don’t have any concept of money. They understand that you owe someone when they give you something. They have very good memories and an honor system that we humans can hardly grasp. You help plant food, you get to eat food. And, yes, they have farms. Nothing like ours. No plowing, no single crops row on row. They plant the beans and seed plants and several other things all together. They grow all together in one clump, and anyone who has a right to the food can come along, pull off supper, and eat it.”
“And if someone doesn’t work but still wants to eat?” the short guy said, finally finding his voice.
“Children can. The elderly can. The injured or handicapped can. If you are able-bodied and don’t do the honorable thing, sooner much more likely than later, you will be talked to by an elder. You get one talking-to. Only one. The next time, the flock gathers and runs you out of town.”
Jacques paused to turn to Amanda, and she took over. “Life outside civilization is brutish and short. There are several animals that enjoy Alwans for dinner. Most of the time they stay away from the civilized areas. Occasionally, one of them will go rogue and invade towns. Before we came, the Alwans hunted with short bows. We introduced the more powerful longbow, and they proved very good at pulling it. Now, we’ve introduced some black-powder rifles. Our hunters are highly honored by the Alwans. I think that’s one reason they let us stay.”
“So, to summarize,” Kris said, “you’ve come a long way to find no market for your goods. If you want to ship anything back to human space, transportation costs will eat your lunch. Worst, there’s a whole lot of aliens that don’t think we have the right to live, much less conduct business, and want to kill us.”
“Can we go home?” the short man asked.
“Sorry, the Monarch and the Fearless are the last two ships headed that way for a long time.”
“I believe the word among my folks,” Jack said, “is root hog or die.”
“Or to put it a way that Alex Longknife might understand,” Kris said, “there’s only one market for your goods, the fleet, and if you work really hard meeting the needs of that market, you just might live.”
“None of us were told this,” the small man complained. “Management said this was a great opportunity.”
“I’m guessing that all of you represent corporations that participated in my Grampa Alex’s scheme to ship all the best that humans had to offer out to where the aliens could capture them, murder the crews, then follow them back to human space.”
“That wasn’t the way it was explained to us,” the young woman said.
“But all your big men had their fingers in that pie, right?”
There were nods around the table.
“I talked with the President of New Eden a while back. He asked me to remind Grampa Al that he should keep his fingers out of the governing process of New Eden. If he didn’t, he’d find that the power to tax is indeed the power to destroy. I’m guessing that after we stopped the fleet of stupidity, a lot of your head folks got taken out to the woodshed by the likes of Ray Longknife, Billy Longknife, and other men of political power. Your men of business were told bad things would happen to them if Alwa didn’t get some industrial capacity. King Ray wanted enough people and machinery here so that if the aliens did indeed stomp Alwa into the ground, they wouldn’t be left wondering where the fleet defending Alwa came from.”
“We’re sacrificial lambs,” the young woman said.
“I like to think that we, my squadron and your industry, are sacrificial tigers.”
“Tigers?” came from a ways down the table.
“Yes. You remember that limerick about a woman who went for a ride on the back of a tiger, and the tiger returned wearing her smile? As I see it, we can run around in panic, or we can see that the next alien that tries to ride this tiger ends up inside. Call it a Longknife thing.”
“And if we don’t want to?”
“Well, along with the various commissions the king dropped in my lap as he was jumping out of here, there was also something I never expected to see. It seems that I am now the Chief Executive Officer of Nuu Enterprises in this system. Who here is from Grampa Al’s shop?”
Three of the fifteen raised their hand, including the young woman who had done the best job of making sense so far.
“Hi, folks,” Kris said with the friendliest grin she could manage. “I’m your new boss.”
“And the rest of us?”
“We follow the Alwa way,” Kris said simply. “You’re breathing my air, eating my food, drinking my water. To go mining, you’ll be burning my reaction mass. You can work for the privilege, and in maybe thirty years earn your ticket back with some pay, or you can be dropped down on Alwa. Most likely, the colonials won’t take you. They also have strong rules about working if you’re going to eat. And, of course, the Alwans have the same attitude. There’s plenty of food in the jungle. Just remember, there are several things with long fangs that consider you food, too.”
Kris had never been in a meeting—Navy, government, or private—that got so quiet.
“What do you want?” the young woman finally asked.
“A plan from you. We need everything. Airplanes to fly scientists so they can make a planetary survey of just what we have here before aliens strip it down to bedrock. The colonials need weapons so they and aggressive Alwans can put up a fight if the aliens do land an army.”
Kris paused. “The bastards like to drop rocks and atomics on the central urban populations, but neither the colonials or Alwans have gone in for big cities. That may help.
“But,” Kris said, leaning on the table, “we need ships. Ships made of conventional metal that you can use to explore and mine and ship resources down to the factories on the moon. We need more factories to make just about everything. And, if possible, I’d like to see some Smart Metal, the newest kind, produced, so we can make our own frigates. And yes, I know that means reactors and huge lasers and all kinds of electronics. Call me a dreamer, but that’s the plan I want from you.”
Kris paused to look around the table. “You say you want to make a fortune. I don’t know if I can promise you that, but I can assure you that you will have one hell of a paragraph on your résumé if we all survive this.”
That got a chuckle from around the table.
“When do you want this plan?” the young woman asked.
“I’d like a quick cut to look at by tomorrow. A fuller plan the day after that. And there’s no need for your workers to sit idle. Those who can help in the shipyard, should. Those who can help nano mining dirtside can do that. Anyone with an idea about how to boost the production facilities the colonials have can drop down and give them a hand.