After that, it was a two-person karaoke session until she had a client, and I had to leave. I had to stop myself humming along as Dr Hasumi while supervising the transfer of all production to the building next door. My company had grown past existing solely on the second floor of my building, which had somewhat surprised me.
The quality assurance job had become the absolute most sought-after job in my enterprise since I made changes to the QA process. I hadn't allowed people to bring in BDs from home because there was no way I was allowing a viral vector of unknown datashard to be connected to my air-gapped systems. However, I would buy ten BDs a week and created a simple system where my employees could vote on which ones I bought, and slowly over time, the library of what a person could watch while QAing increased.
The engineer that I had just hired to help me caused me to blush in embarrassment as after we were alone, he sang softly and surprisingly well, " Lad, I don't know where ya been, but I see you've won first prize! " Our karaoke session had gotten bawdier and bawdier, and we had just been singing "The Drunk Scotsman," and this man had correctly identified the song I had been humming. I was clearly dealing with an educated man of culture here.
I tried to glare at him but couldn't help but grin, trying to explain, "That song had been stuck in my head." I was actually pretty impressed he recognised the song just from me humming it. The fact that he wasn't afraid to rib his boss a little bit on what was his first day made me feel better about hiring him. That was good because his salary was seven times what one of my average workers was making, and that was before profit-sharing incentives. He was the first Corpo that I had actually hired; even all of my supervisors were barely more than straw bosses, just regular workers with enough responsibility and ambition to manage a few people apiece.
"Come across the street, and I'll discuss what you'll be working on first," I told him, and we left the building in silence. He snorted in amusement at the sign on the outside of my office as we walked inside. It said, "Dr Hasumi, PhD, MD, CEO, CTO, CFO, Head Honcha, El Jefa, etc." I had put it up as a joke, and I was glad someone finally found it amusing.
We sat down, and he said first, "I'm curious about what you need dedicated engineer assistance for. I have examined and tested your product... our product, rather... and it seems rather mature and effective. It's mostly a regular braindance implementation, and I doubt you'll trust me to work on the confidential, patented areas, employment contract and NDA or not."
I nodded solemnly. That was true. He wouldn't be allowed to work on either the confidential circuitry and especially not on the software that made the sleep inducer work. He wouldn't even be allowed to walk unescorted into the production area because an especially intelligent man, like he was, could use some of the flashing jigs to get the binary code or possibly my master cryptographic keys from the station that installed my proprietary software onto the assembled devices.
It was true that a forensic disassembly, including physical de-encapsulation of the memory units on the device, would eventually work, but I had designed the system to use distributed and encrypted memory to be resistant to this type of reverse engineering. There was no reason to let someone bypass all of that effort involved.
"You're not wrong, but there are a number of projects that I'd like to work on that your assistance will be very useful, from a new product to assist with some of my production and quality assurance systems," I said mildly. We were both Corpos, so I wouldn't prevaricate just to be polite. I didn't trust him, and he would think less of me if I implied that I did.
He raised an eyebrow, "A new product? Or a variation? My speciality is software, not electrical engineering. I can get by, but I probably understand circuits less than you do from what I can tell."
I nodded, triggering the holographic display on my desk to project an image of something that somewhat resembled my first-generation device, except a lot bulkier, "This is, essentially, a ruggedised version of my first device. It costs two times as much to produce, but you could literally drive over it with a deuce-and-a-half, and it would still be functional."
The engineer was silent for a moment as he inspected it. My holographic projector was very high-end and could produce three-dimensional full-colour images, which was important as I mostly used it for biosculpt consults. However, the man in front of me zeroed in on the drab green colour of the exterior of the device, raising an eyebrow, "A military product?" He let out his breath in a hiss and sat back in his seat, eyes widening a little, "Yes, this product really does have military implications, doesn't it? I assume my job will be software related. This already looks ready to ship, almost, though, so what is your plan? I have no experience at all working on military products."
"If all I wanted was a ruggedised version of the inducer, it is indeed ready to ship. However, that would make a mediocre product for a military customer, at best," I said, spreading my hands out. I tilted my head and asked, "How much do you know about modern warfare?"
"Absolutely nothing," he said immediately, which pleased me. If he had tried to bullshit me, I would have been upset.
I nodded, "You wouldn't be surprised to know it is very computerised now, though?"
"Clearly. Even in the third world, they have some manner of computer-based warfare management systems. I would guess things like individualised or squad-based data links all the way up the chain of command, jam-resistant frequency hopping encrypted comms at the minimum," he said as if this was an academic exercise.
I slapped my hand into my fist and nodded, "Precisely. It is the squad management systems that I want my devices integrated into. There are dozens available, but mostly they use a similar standard, so it isn't actually that hard to develop for."
"So the commanders can see when their soldiers are sleeping?" he asked, still not quite getting it.
I shook my head, paused, and then nodded, "Well, yes. Partly. But mainly so that whoever is assigned to watch, or automated sensors, can quickly wake the entire squad. Some squad management systems include simple but robust AI-based systems that will alert the squad if suspected unfriendlies arrive based on sensors; other systems require human intervention. In any case, I want a system where a squad leader or his designee can quickly wake every man in his squad in an emergency rather than have to run to each physical body and rip the inducer off their heads."
"Ahhh.. that makes a lot of sense. For getting rest in dangerous areas, this would be a dramatic improvement on the status quo. Can physically-active soldiers survive on the reduced sleep schedule your devices provide? Over long periods of time?" he asked curiously. That was a very insightful question, too, which caused me to raise my eyebrows.
I made a waffling gesture, "The physical part of rest when you sleep is less than you'd think. Certainly, less than the mental part, but very active people would need at least one long sleep segment a week to keep up. Or alternatively, a nanosurgeon implant or daily supplement of nanomeds. However, the upcoming war won't be like Flanders. Modern warfare won't be months and months of constant trench warfare."
He raised an eyebrow, "You sound confident that this unpleasantness with the Free States won't go away, unlike all the other times."
"Yes. Neither side is backing down this time. I think this is going to be President Kress' last big huzzah. If she declined to confront the free states, she would never win the next election," I told him. I had spent a long, long time thinking about this, and I was mostly mollified that my conclusion was that this conflict was, more or less, unavoidable even if I hadn't done anything. Kress was up against the wall after being a dictator for forty years, and it wasn't because I had high confidence in the state of "democracy" that NUSA practised. The person who won the elections was the one who the oligarchs, collectively, wanted to run the nation. The CEO of Militech, Rosalind Myers, was already saying that Kress wasn't going far enough. If Kress didn't do anything, then she would be impeached or, more likely, die in a tragic coronary implant malfunction.
He smirked, obviously having the same opinion about NUSA's democracy that I did, but he nodded slowly after a time, "Okay. This is a new field for me, but it sounds rather exciting. Do you have test versions of some of the more common squad management systems?"
I nodded, "Yes. And all the documentation. I could probably handle this, but..." Software wasn't my expertise. Especially software that wasn't attached to an obvious medical device or implant. This was theoretically attached to a "medical device", but none of it was designed to make the interface of machine and human work any better, so I would get almost no help at all with it.
"But you're very busy," he finished for me.
I nodded. Yes, let's go with that, "I have written all of the documentation about interfacing with the black-boxed elements of the device's firmware, though. If you need additional APIs exposed, feel free to send me a message, and I'll work to implement them."
He popped all of his fingers, which sounded impressive. I was one of the people who couldn't really do that, no matter how much I tried. He grinned, "Well, I better get started then. My office is across from yours?"
My new clinic in Night City had barely been open for a couple of days before I got an odd visitor. Well, it was a courier. After verifying my identity, he handed me an honest to god paper envelope and quickly departed. Or tried to hand it to me, as I made him place it on my receptionist's desk.
I put on some nitrile gloves and grabbed a respirator from my medical equipment, took the envelope into my private area, and said, "Kumo-kun, BSL protocols."
Instantly, I heard the relatively loud blowers I had installed in line with the venting system creating a slight negative pressure in the room as I hummed, amused. I had both exceptional anti-viral and anti-bacterial medicine immediately available, as well as agonists for most neural toxins that Kumo-kun would automatically inject into me if all of my muscles suddenly froze up. My internal nanites were primed to defend against invaders, too. The only thing I couldn't quickly cure was unusual prion diseases, but so long as I didn't lick the envelope, I thought I would be fine on that front.
"Let's see how bad they want me dead, eh?" I said to Kumo-kun and used an exceptionally sharp knife and tweezers to open the envelope. My name had been written on it with what appeared to be a fountain pen, in cursive, which I took for just bait. A less savvy girl would have immediately ripped the envelope open to see which ball she had been invited to, but I wasn't stupid.
There wasn't any obvious white powder falling out, so it wasn't likely anthrax. I raised an eyebrow, "Continuous spectroscopic analysis of the air, please, Kumo-kun. Notify me when you find any unusual organic compounds or virons."
I pulled out the single sheet of paper out with the tweezers and unfolded it, reading it.
"Dear Miss Hebert,
You are cordially invited for tea on or about the fifth of July at the Azure Plaza in Night City. I promise you that you will be much more pleased with the conclusion of this visit than the last time you patronised this establishment.
Please RVSP no later than the first.
Your grandmother,
Sionainn Astor-Armstrong"
What... the fuck?! I had a grandmother?! This wasn't a Biotechnica assassination attempt?!
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SPACE! I'm in space!
AN: Portions of the dialogue in this first segment were taken almost word-for-word from a famous exchange between a Russian officer (Ivan Alekseevich Savin) and a Chechen (Turpal-Ali Atgeriyev) right before the battle of Grozny during the 1st war. These two men were friends and comrades fighting alongside each other in Afghanistan years prior, and the combination of fate and certain boozing politicians put them at odds with each other. I adjusted a few things, but I've always remembered the words they said to each other years later when I heard it, although I was a child and already immigrating to the USA when this happened.
Lieutenant Colonel James Waters watched the approaching column of mechanised infantry approach the rail yard he was charged to protect. He had his men and machines in a defensive position, mostly hiding in an urban area that had been evacuated, but the attacking forces outnumbered him. Still, he felt that his preparation would savage them, even if he or most of his men didn't survive the battle. Still, in the calculus of war, trading one battalion for an entire regiment could be considered a victory. It was just a shame that he could not expect any reinforcements any time soon. If he had another battalion, he figured he could destroy the enemy force while minimising his own casualties.
His XO walked up to him and said quietly, "Sir, drones have identified the approaching tangos. It's the 131st Regiment, as you thought."
Jim let out a series of invectives and finally sighed, glancing over to his commo section, "Get me a transmitter, one we don't care too much about. I want to transmit in the clear."
The enlisted men raised their eyebrows but nodded, tapping away at physical keyboards on computers. Finally, one said, "Sir, we have a transmitter in the switching yards, they already bombed it with a loitering munition, so they already know it is there, but it is still working. For now, Sir."
Jim nodded, "Perfect." He grabbed a handset and made sure it was paired with his cybernetics before routing it to the transmitter his commo section gave him. He clicked the push-to-talk and said, "Bill, is that you?"
One of his best friends, Colonel William Howe, was the commanding officer of the Southern California 131st Mechanised Infantry Regiment. He, like Jim himself, was a reservist called up to active duty. They had fought together in the past but were on opposite sides this time. There was no response on the radio, and Jim sighed, trying again, "Bill, come on, maybe somehow before it's too late, turn your guys back. Don't do this. Don't do it; it is not needed. In any case, understand that you will die, and I will die. Understand for yourself... who would win from this? Neither of us will win, understand? You and I won't survive, you know?" His men were staring at him, "If I see you in the battle, I won't show you any mercy. Just like you won't show me any, you understand?"
