Buried in securities-exchange filings were allusions to large budgetary allocations that were unusual, for the Fortient division in particular. The Fortient division was important. They built armored vehicles, drones, and aircraft, plus other classified armaments. Yet compared to the software and car lift businesses, the returns of Fortient were anemic at best, and there were no upcoming governmental bids that would suggest that a big investment made sense.
Axel spent time with a number of low-level Nadar Corporation accounting representatives under the auspices of exploring cost-cutting initiatives for security operations. They were more than eager to work with him for the opportunity to get exposure to a high-level executive, even if it meant working with the obscure security function. Some innocuous questions revealed that quite a few employees in project management, software development and analytics from other Nadar divisions were also allocating their time to Fortient. Facilities space, skunk works projects, and some other little-known dark pools of money were also contributing.
When Axel added it all up, including the portion actually revealed in public securities filings, the changes amounted to an R&D budget of two billion dollars for Fortient alone. This nearly matched the R&D budget for the division that accounted for the majority of Nadar Corporation’s revenues.
What’s more, a new leader named Finnegan Rawlings had been tapped to lead Fortient. Rawlings had worked in several biotech and software development companies in the last several years; one of them being in the defense industry.
What was unusual about Rawlings’ appointment was that his highest budget under management had been about forty million dollars, and yet he was given an effective budget fifty times that much with Fortient.
Rawlings’s position wasn’t even formally announced other than a message sent internally to a handful of key people in Fortient. The current leader of the division was keeping his name and title, reporting directly to Rawlings. It was certainly unusual to not announce the new head of a division with a two-billion-dollar budget. Axel only found out about it secondhand, after quite a bit of digging.
Axel lit up some intelligence assets outside of Nadar Corporation to find out more, even though he knew he was pushing the boundaries of what Bhavin might consider acceptable. It turned out that before Rawlings’s time as an entrepreneur he’d had military training and, much like Axel, had done special ops as well. Known missions were in Afghanistan, Brazil, Mongolia and Egypt.
It was certainly possible there was a novel defense technology that Nadar Corporation was developing. Maybe Bhavin felt it might jeopardize Axel’s efforts if he was exposed to it. Perhaps Bhavin needed an experienced operative to sell in to specific military clients. Or maybe Bhavin was doubling down on his efforts to neutralize global threats and needed someone with experience similar to Axel’s.
But why not tell Axel about it? There was no reason Axel should be worried about parallel divisions with similar objectives. In fact, as long as there was some coordination at the top, he would welcome it.
It was possible Bhavin was fickle—that he had tired of playing global vigilante and had now found another way to make money that involved shiny new defense technologies. And it was also possible this new venture might actually be at odds with Axel’s imperatives, with the reason Axel was at Nadar Corporation to begin with.
He picked up the phone and rang his assistant.
“Jessica?”
“Yes, Mr. Kelemen.”
“Can you invite Finnegan Rawlings and his family to a welcome barbeque this weekend? Tell him I insist.”
“Finnegan Rawlings, sir?”
“You’ll find him in the company directory, although his title won’t be listed.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
SCARS, BURNS, AND BLEMISHES
The expedition made camp at the base of the tower after filling up half the platforms with bike frames, wheels, chains, seats, gear sets, brake wires, bolts, nuts and washers, all neatly partitioned and stacked.
The area around the towers was an even eerier place in the darkness. When Owen looked up he saw the immutable black cylinders looming above him, negating large swaths of the starry skys.
The main congregation of the camp was just outside an old opening they’d made in the bottom section of the tower. A few others clustered on the outer perimeter closer to where the various platforms were parked. Guards were also posted around the periphery.
Despite his many exertions, Owen felt invigorated, infused with a feeling of accomplishment. Opening a new tower section seemed to be some sort of rite of passage with the mules. They were even receptive to his many questions.
Or maybe tolerant was the better word.
They spoke of the bandit tribes—how husbands and wives were shared, how elderly folks were sacrificed and then eaten. One mule spoke of fields littered with husks of melted metal where massive battles had taken place. Another mule spoke of riding through the “legs of the giant,” which sounded like some sort of archway carved into a mountain. A wrench named Arsalan, an immigrant from the north with a sickle-shaped scar extending from his chin to his right ear, even spoke of Gondola Valley, a place where glass boxes hung from lines crisscrossing the sky.
He’d heard about these people and places before, from his mother or kids at trade school, but there was something about being in this foreign place, under these pre-Detonation skyscrapers, with these hardened riders who had spent much of their time in bandit lands, that made them seem more believable. The stories might be embellished, even untrue, but Owen chose to immerse himself in them—he even garnished them with his own active imagination before devouring them.
It wasn’t until later in the evening that he realized not one of them had mentioned his spots or called him names. For these mules, scars, burns, and blemishes were a natural part of their existence, accrued daily from toiling against treacherous environments and bumpy trails. In fact, looking around the fire at the faces of these hardened men, markings were more common than not.
In the midst of a mule sounding off about a particularly treacherous century ride, Owen witnessed Preston cut through the main congregation and hurriedly grab some stew from the stew pot. Owen had seen little of Preston since they had finished up for the day.
While the mule folk tales were fun and interesting, it would be nice to know more about why he was really here. He decided to skip the next story and try to catch up with Preston, who had now cut back through the congregation.
Preston wasn’t carrying a lantern, so it was hard to follow his form as it waded deeper into the darkness. Based on his trajectory it looked like he was heading to where his assigned platform was stationed. It had been placed right at one of the outward vertices of their perimeter. The embers of a small fire were visible there, so Owen was able to navigate in that direction, despite losing track of Preston.
He walked with slow footfalls, trying to avoid banging his shins on any boulders or other debris.
As he came closer to the fire pit, he heard talking in the distance. It was too faint to make out the words at first, but based on the sharp intonations he could tell they were having a heated discussion.
When he was closer still, the words became clearer. “No, we tell them nothing. Why do they need to know? We’re seeking out parts for a new coal furnace crank. That’s it. These mules won’t care.”
“Sure, most won’t care, but what about the wrenches? What about our own crew? When do we tell them where we’re going? The mules hang together. If our crew isn’t comfortable, they could cause a stir with the others.”