Chapter 3
Date: March 16, 3025
Location: Kalidasa, Free Worlds League
Two and a half months into my new life. Close to ten thousand Eagles saved up, an old, beat up pickup truck, and the name of an antiques dealer who my supervisor swore was going to be able to give me a deal on the five dollar bill in my wallet. Well, that and the newspaper with the Classified ad that I was holding onto for the address of later.
I waved at the gate guards on my way out. They were good fellas. A little inattentive compared to Jack. But after learning what I had about Quikscell's reputation, I didn't hold it against them. Probably wouldn't hire them to guard or secure any business I started in the future, but still good fellas.
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the keys I'd been handing by Billy and headed for the parking lot. The old factory foreman being willing to part with the old truck for a song as long as long as I promised to fix her up.
It said something that even this far into the future and far away from the 'Japan' section of the Inner Sphere the Hilux was still one of the most popular trucks sold. The stylized 'T" still prominent and recognizable even all these years later.
Unfortunately, I had to make a conscious effort to compress the stream of information that bombarded my consciousness when I saw the truck, but with enough force, I was able to either ignore it, or make it stop.
There had been more than one time on the factory floor where I'd had to adopt a coworker's smoking habit just to get away from the sheer amount of information I saw when looking out over a bunch of vehicles.
Thankfully, the information dimmed and faded once I wasn't looking at something. It took a while, but it didhappen. Which meant I got some relief from the constant pressure that existed when I had been working.
Climbing into the Hilux, I tossed my bag in the passenginer seat, pushed in my key and turned it over, the engine roaring to life with the familiar sound of a powerful engine and making me feel a bit like I was back home.
Reaching across the bench seat, I popped open the glove box. There, just as promised, was a map of the nearby city.
Unfolding the map, I set it beside me and pulled out of the parking lot and onto the dusty roads. It was a couple of hours drive to the city, and the antiques dealer was one of the people living in downtown.
That meant they were well off, or were connected in my experience. People who dealt in antiques seemed to always come in two or three groups. Group one was the people who were just old, and had accumulated a bunch of stuff that they didn't know what to do with. Group two, was the money launderers, and group three were the ones that had a bunch of money and/or connections. Sometimes there was overlap and it wasn't a hard rule, but that had been my experience.
Regardless, I had a pretty good idea of what the $5 bill was worth, and figured I could use that along with what I'd saved up here to buy what I'd found in the Classified Ads. With this newfound headache that I lived with, I figured I might as well use it to my advantage.
"I can give you a hundred and twenty thousand Eagles if you want it right now," Varick's antique dealer said, setting a set of inspector's glasses down. "Or, if you're willing to wait a bit, I can probably find someone who'll buy it for closer to three hundred. It's a rare bill, but it's not one with a serial number that makes it more collectable than others."
"How about a hundred and fifty for me then?" I asked. "After all, if you're able to sell it for three on behalf of someone else, you're probably able to find someone who can buy it at two, three times the hundred and fifty thousand."
The antique dealer, a man by the name of Bartholemew Shallows fit all three of the stereotypes I'd affixed in my head related to dealers in art and antiques. He was old and had accumulated a bunch of stuff, he was most definitely a money launderer if the prices around me were anything to go by, and he was politically and monetarily connected to the people who ran the city.
Bartholomew stroked his graying goatee and sighed before agreeing.
"I suppose you're not incorrect," He gestured for me to follow him to a small room in the back. "Now, let me count this out and we'll consider this transaction finalized."
I knew that he was ripping me off. But I didn't really have any other choice at the moment. I just didn't have the funds to do anything like what I wanted to. None of my old startups would be a good idea here, the silicon industry pretty much didn't exist. However, there was an industry that the information plaguing my mind had decided I would be great in.
Manufacturing or repairing everything that was combat related here.
With that in mind, I'd bought a newspaper every day for the last few months. God I wished there was the information infrastructure for a Craigslist equivalent around, but seeing as it didn't, I'd used the classified ads instead.
One month had gone by, no opportunities, then another. Finally, about a week ago, someone listed their place for sale. An old scrapyard by the name of Siler's Salvage. Seems the old owner had passed away, and his grandkids wanted nothing to do with the place.
"Don't spend it all in one place," Bartholomew handed me the paper package with the cash in it. "I threw an extra fifteen thousand in there. Lemme know if you find any other rarities. I'd be willing to buy 'em off of you."
"I'll keep that in mind," I nodded, tucking the cash underneath my jacket and shaking his hand before heading out the door. I had a mission, and one particular location to go to.
"You want it, you can have it," Sylvie Siler, the granddaughter of the previous owner scowled, her blond curls framing her young face. "Ma won't let me keep the place, and dad's too busy working to care."
"You wanted to keep it?" I asked. "I can always find somewhere else if this is something you want to keep in your family. Believe me, I wouldn't want anything leaving my family if I were you.'
"Well, Mr. Blaze,"
"Call me Edmund," I said out of habit.
"Well, Edmund. I'd love to, but my folks don't care about places like this," She looked out over the acres of half-destroyed equipment, tanks, 'mechs, old civilian vehicles, just about anything you could imagine was in there. "Gramps used to go to Solaris and bring back the junk from the arenas. He barely turned a profit, but he always swore it'd pay off. Then he died, and none of the rest of them want anything to do with it. So, it falls to me."
The young woman sighed.
"I don't want to sell it, but I can't afford to maintain it either. So, tell me your plan, and I'll tell you whether I'm gonna sell it to you or not."
"Well, Sylvie," I met her eyes. She felt young, but I had to remind myself that twenty-three wasn't really that young. I was just old. "I'm going to take every piece of junk in that scrapyard and I'm going to fix it and sell it," I began painting my vision for the future for her. "Then, I'm going to go to the planetary militia and make an offer. In exchange for an exclusive contract, I'm going to make certain that every single Quikscell product they purchase works as intended. I'll back that with a lifetime warranty. Beyond that," I shrugged. "Who knows. I'll figure things out as they grow from there."
Sylvie just stared beyond me at the piles of waste before the piercing blue and green gaze locked back onto me.
"If you're gonna be working on all of that, you're gonna need an employee or two," she smirked. "How about you purchase half, and we both benefit?"
"On two conditions," I raised a finger. "No board of directors, and no going public."
"I can work with that," She stuck out her hand. "Welcome to Siler's Salvage, Mister Blaze. Let's see what we can get done today."
With a firm shake, we had a deal and she led me into the primary workshop of the salvage yard.
"This here's the main workshop, there's another further back, but I think it got buried a couple of years ago. We've got two 'mech gantries, and three vehicle bays. All of 'em are ripped out of dropships that were sold for scrap according to Gramps. They're not a perfect fit, but they'll do the job. Now, Gramps used to have an organizational system in the beginning. But as he got older, I think he lost his mind a bit. So, things aren't all organized or in one place. Tools were kept properly, as for everything else…" She trailed off.
I stepped out into the yard itself and grimaced. There was the smell of rust in the air, something that smelled similar to antifreeze, and a lot of dust.
"You get used to the smell eventually," Sylvie's face looked a lot like how I imagined mine did. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure the stuff closer to the workshop is what Gramps thought was going to be the easiest to repair."
"You sure about that?" I glanced at a rusted out Demolisher beside us and winced as the information about what was wrong with it filled my brain.
"No," Sylvie admitted. "I'm kinda just hoping he wasn't entirely crazy at the end."
"Well, either way I'm here for it," I chuckled. "So, let's get the paperwork done, and I'll get started. We have some money to make!"