* * *
In a dark room, at an oval director’s table, two large guys are smoking cigars, but the smoke is not spreading around the room – it is being contained within a 1 meter diameter spherical bubble, that moves sluggishly with the cigar tip. One guy flicks his cigar and the ash never hits the floor – the tobacco is treated with programmable Quantinium, so the smoke and ash produced disappear, they remain entangled at a quantum level – the treated matter, designed to behave in a particular way. At G$1,000 (global dollars) per cigar, quantum-jump tobacco is popular with the mega-rich. It’s harmless, but loses none of its old-style effects until the by-products vanish, even the stuff he's inhaled, disappears without a trace. Amazing, what you can buy if you have enough money.
Another half a dozen people are sitting around the table: one other suit and the rest casual, two are wearing workshop boiler suits. The meeting was called by Fischer, the engineering manager, citing an urgent matter. Two IPMC company directors (the finance and operations Fat Cats), Fischer’s line manager, three analysts and two workshop technicians.
Fischer is pacing slowly around the table, about to speak. The meeting room suddenly appears to be located on a beautiful sandy beach with some light grass, sand dunes and sea crashing softly nearby, a ticker moves slowly around the room – a company advertisement, saying: “Welcome to Rubicon – Paradise in your Pocket from IPMC.” The manager exclaims: "Whoops, sorry! I wanted ahem..." – The room, floor to ceiling is coated with Pixel Paint so that each surface can project whatever image or video is supplied to the room. The manager just thinks of the projection he wants and the computer he's wearing in his ear transmits the video to the room. If not available, the computer selects the media, matching closest to the thought-request.
Some in the room start laughing and one says: "Are you hoping to get away soon, Fischer? That looks like a beach in Mexico."
“I was wishing I had one of those islands we make… Only need a cool billion dollars or a serious promotion,” says Fischer, looking at his line manager. The visible location changes to the surface of Mars, with one of IPMC’s Mark 5 mining drills parked nearby. "Ok that's better," smiling, he replies: “Yes, I was a little distracted there for a second, my missus just booked us for 2 weeks on a deserted beach somewhere, not sure if it’s Mexico, but good enough for now... OK, let's just focus for a second... Welcome all,” Fischer looks around the room, stops panning at the two large guys, nods gently and says to them, “and thank you gentlemen, for traveling in, at such short notice.” He continues: “As some of you will know, the test phase completes next month and Mark 5 drills are already deployed in over half their locations. But we have a slight deviation, possibly. Six hours ago the Data Analysts were re-visiting an area we thought were ancient lava tubes at Hellas crater.” Fischer thinks of a map of Hellas Impact Crater and the two-screens the Operator and Supervisor were looking at the other day. The images flash up around the room.
Fischer circles the same area on the side-by-side images. "These images are tunnels at Hellas four hours apart. Can anyone spot the difference?" A few sniggers around the room as it is obvious the second image shows many more tunnels. "Of course, this image shows a number of new tunnels, six actually, dug from 20:50 to 00:50... We estimate 400 meters of drilling in 4 hours... Now, this presents us with a couple of problems: one – we have exclusive prospecting rights throughout Hellas, and two – we have the best drills money can buy, or so we thought in both cases... Firstly, these drills are working 100 times faster than anything we've got. Second, we don't know who they are... It could be a secret US / Russian operation or rival Chinese company, just landed. These tunnels weren't there 7 hours ago."
Fischer continues to pace around and wipes sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. "One problem is, we can't find the entry point yet. There appears to be no base station on the surface, so these units are operating independently, without surface support. We may have to dig to get to this labyrinth, find out who they are, but it's only shallow, about 20 meters down."
The finance fat cat pipes up:
"How much will it cost to get a team in there?"
"We have Specialists 250 miles North with full equipment on site." By ‘Specialists’ he means people who have astronautics, mining and military training and by ‘full equipment’ he means space transport, drilling equipment and weapons.
"How much and how long?"
"We can spare 6 guys without affecting the Mark 5 roll-out, but commissioning and, therefore, production, will be delayed at a rate of 6 days for each day they are away from IPMC Mars Base, to a maximum of 48 days before relief arrives. Each pair of guys are working on one drill."
Fat Cat sighs, looks down and drops his shoulders:
"OK, how blooming much?" shaking his head, he's thinking: "Fricking waffling, obstructive engineers and their plans."
"The Mark 5 drill can process Marsonite (Martian rare-earth-bearing ore) at 168,000 kilograms per day, yielding about 84 tons of rare earth oxide for transport each day."
"Will you be getting to the price in my lifetime?"
Fischer frowns, hesitates, takes a deep breath and says: “The oxides wholesale at an average G$500 million (global dollars) per ton, Earth-side (delivered to Earth), that's G$42 billion per day per drill." The Fat Cat shakes his head and tuts. Fischer continues, "So the 6 guys will cost at least G$126 billion in lost production per day, but if we lose them or they take the entire 48 days, we're looking at about G$6.048 trillion. But we might get a good look at that crazy drill they're using, which could have an output of nearly G$30 trillion per week!"
Fat Cat lifts his eyebrows, starts playing with his nose and nods gently, prodding his upper lip for a few moments, then scowls: "Will we be able to steal this drill or take it apart, to see how it works?"
"I dunno, I'm a designer, not a reverse-engineer Sir, I’ll need to talk to some Specialists, but if it’s a machine, we can copy it. We'll have to take each minute as it comes though."
"OK, I'm happy to authorise this. If you can make this work, Fischer, at 30 trillion per week, you can name your job and your price," fat cat looks at the other fat cat for approval, who nods gently behind a mouth dropped at both corners. "OK, get those 6 Specialists moving ASAP, but I want this in the mission objective – borrow competitor drill, copy it, return to owner. This is an illegal mining operation so we have complete legitimacy, but copying is a more delicate matter. I know the powers-that-be are recording everything we say and do, so always make sure you state your intentions early, is my advice, legal or otherwise. We wanna know how they drill rock at 100 meters per hour. I want you to personally manage this mission from here with daily updates, Fischer. Let me know once you have the drill ID; I’ll need to call the owners personally."
"Yes Sir, I'll get right on it. Meeting adjourned."
Fat Cat breezes out of the conference room and into a private booth to make a secure text call to Mars, “Hi Sam, Fischer is about to call you regarding a competitor, drilling illegally in your sector. I need you to make up one of your ‘special devices’ for me and give it to the inspection team, Fischer will be setting up for you. I want you to issue very clear instructions on how to get things set up and activate the device. Before that, I want a full scan of the competitor machine sent here, to Fischer, as a top priority. They’ll need the device to stop the competitor drill, but won’t EVER need to restart it. To find out how that machine works, you’ll need to tear it apart – so leave no traces. Are you with me on this one, Sam? Any questions?”
Right now, Mars is 286 million miles from Earth, so the reply comes back from Sam Page about 30 minutes later: “Yes Sir, I know exactly what you mean. Stop, copy and NEVER restart. Please leave everything to me.”
Fat Cat knows he must return the drill to someone or face the likelihood of serious compensation, so Sam has just been set up and gets the blame if anything goes wrong. Messages to and from a private booth cannot be intercepted and recorded, but those in t
he conference room are. If the competitor accuses IPMC of damaging or stealing their drill, “Page, acted well beyond his remit.”