ThinkTank Dynamics

There is a facet of the Overseer which he is careful to hide from the prying eyes of the public. He makes no attempts to conceal his struggle to grasp the meaning of life or his quest to understand his own nature, but this . . .

This is business.



One month after the release of the Salvation System

A shadow moved. A lesser man might not have noticed, but Miko Minn had been a law enforcement officer for the majority of his life, and he had trained his mind long ago to detect such subtle and telling events.

“Lights,” An unfamiliar voice ordered, and the Regent of Cestus' new office flared to life, revealing the dark-plated droid hiding in the corner. “I have a business proposition for you, Regent Minn.”





“What do you mean: 'discontinued!?'”

“Version 1.3 is almost ready!”

The droid waved them all silent, rising to its full and considerable height. “The Salvation Program has been deemed a success. Its continuance is a waste of precious resources.”

“Well what about Guardian!?”

“Yeah, that's what we came here for anyway!”

“The Cooperative Council of Defense has determined that the implementation of Salvation has revealed too much of the systems and protocols which made Guardian viable in a military context. Its organic interface protocols alone have compromised one of the central elements of Guardian.”

“They don't work,” Aaron Reinhardt spoke up, silencing the other dissenting scientists and technicians. “Crew chiefs working with Salvation have had to resort to direct input of correctional data to yield increased productivity. We intentionally downgraded several other aspects of Salvation―such as its hive mind―specifically to protect the viability of―”

“The Council has spoken,” The droid cut him off. “The Guardian Project is to be discontinued; all relevant data will be stored and the Guardian Base will be destroyed.”





“Whoever it is: no thank you.” Dr. Reinhardt didn't bother getting up from the small work station he had made for himself on the Cooperative freighter. The ruins of Guardian Base were still probably cooling, and he had already gotten back to work.

“I want to offer you a job.”

Aaron turned at the sound of the mechanical voice, taking note of the unfamiliar black-coated droid model. “Smarts?”

“No. But I am here on his behalf.”

“Can you give him a message for me?”

“Actually, I'm here to give you a message from him.”

“I really don't care to hear what he has to say,” Aaron said angrily, turning back to his work.

“How would you feel about another chance at developing Guardian's adaptive interaction protocols?”





“And Smarts wants to run this . . . subsidiary?”

“The Overseer wishes to assemble a research and development team built expressly to create the kind of software that is inherent in Smarts himself. The sort of cutting-edge, adaptive artificial intelligence programming that turns boxes into automated freighters, battle droids into combat tacticians, and astromechs into think tanks. We can turn Cestus Cybernetics into more than just a manufacturing company again.”

“I can't just . . .” Miko Minn began, laughing in exasperation, “. . . conjure a new organization because somebody asked me to.”

“The Hive Council will support this endeavor,” The shadowy droid stated. “The Overseer intends to use the team responsible for the Salvation System as the core of the group, which will―”

“These people made Salvation?” Miko asked, obviously impressed.

“All I ask is that you allow the Overseer to present his plan to a closed session of the Cestus Cybernetics Interim Board.”





The facility was a hardened bunker buried into the base of a mountain, an expansive complex originally built as a backup for the Five Families of Cestus Cybernetics. It had laid dormant since the Five Families' deaths, but that would not remain the case for long. Power leads ran up to the massive, sealed door, supplying it with the energy needed to open.

Which it did.

Into the darkness marched an army of droids, each of them given a specific task. Before long they would reach the complex's dormant heart and reawaken the abandoned fortress.

Before long, ThinkTank Dynamics would be up and running, and the first piece would be in place . . .

Everyman's Scalable Freight

The Coalition trade route was nearing completion, the Dac relocation was running ahead of schedule, the Onyxian reintegration was proving more successful than could ever have been hoped . . .

The whole of the Coalition had rallied around the refugee crisis, following the Cooperative's lead as it fought to reinstate the billions of displaced souls as normal, productive, citizens.

With the face of the Coalition changing and the strain of the Cooperative easing as the countless hands of the East and West joined it in their collective goal, the Cooperative Senate was preparing to privatize much of the resources it had assembled over the course of this massive, multi-front endeavor. The time had come for Crisis to end, and Free Enterprise to resume.

The Ryn looked up from his desk, eying the droid suspiciously, unfamiliarly. “Overseer?”

“Smarts,” The shadowy form corrected, stepping farther into the room and allowing the door to slide shut behind it. “More or less.”

The alien's eyes widened in almost-understanding, and then he nodded, apparently content to leave the implications of the statement where they were. “I'm Pom Pollock; I'm an assistant assigned to one of the Junior Seats of the Ryn Council of Elders.” The droid made no moves, spoke no words, showed no signs of life or interest. “Umm, the Ryn Council has something of a proposition for you―for the Overseer.”

“That is why I am here,” The droid replied neutrally.

“Right, right. Well, most of the Cooperative's freighter fleet is going to be auctioned off, both as a component of the privatization program and as an effort to assist the many new small- and medium- scale freight companies that the Cooperative's Council of Commerce has projected will be formed in the wake of the trade route's opening.” Pom paused, studying the droid more closely.”

“And?”

“Umm, and the Ryn Nation has been allocated a substantial fraction of that freighter fleet as an element of the Cooperative's compensation programs . . . payment for services rendered and whatnot. Anyway, the Ryn Council has decided unanimously that you―the Overseer―should be gifted a portion of our allocated resources . . . payment for services rendered and whatnot. After all, none of us would be here if not for his efforts to create this nation.”

The droid began shaking its head. “Government officials cannot receive private compensation for the passing of official government laws, treaties, edicts, and articles; that is the law.”

Pom shook his head as well. “You've got it all wrong. Smarts presented the proposition for a Ryn Nation to the Combined Council and they brought it into being. And this isn't private compensation; this is an official decree of the Ryn Council of Elders, a governmental compensation issued to a private citizen for acts of 'unparalleled and essential service to the Ryn people and their new way of life.' It is fully within the bounds of Ryn law, and any attempt by an outside power―the Cooperative Combined Council included―to interfere with this transfer would be an infringement upon the sovereignty of the Ryn Nation.” Pom paused, smiling excitedly at the dark droid. “Looks like you've just become part owner of the Ryn Galactic Trade Fleet.”




“Look, I'm really busy right now,” Athan said absently, shooing the small survey droid away as he checked another set of data. “Can't this wait?”

“No.” The little, floating droid's voice brought Athan to a total stop. He glanced around, just then realizing that he was alone with the droid.

“Overseer?” He said, disbelieving.

“Smarts,” The droid corrected, “actually.”

“What are you doing here . . . and what's with that droid?”

The little sphere hovered around, taking note of every item in the room. “My apologies; Salvation wasn't intended for this sort of machine. The poor thing doesn't know what to do with itself.”

“Overseer,” Athan said firmly, grabbing at the droid to get its attention.

“Smarts,” The voice corrected again, the droid finally coming to a near-total stop in front of Athan, though it was obviously scrutinizing him thoroughly. “Have you heard about the new Ryn trade fleet?”

Athan nodded, looking away from the droid, which only floated over to get itself back into the Ryn's view. “Not a whole lot, but yeah. Part of the plan to cut the Ryn loose and help us build ourselves a national economy. Why do you ask?” He finally relented, looking straight at the orb.

“The Ryn want to make me partial owner; they think its necessary as some kind of 'compensation' for helping to create the nation.”

Athan nodded again. “Makes sense to me. We do owe you a lot, you know.”

The spherical repulsor droid began wobbling oddly, some sort of indistinct gesture. “I need you to convince the Council of Elders and the Combined Council to establish my part as a separate corporate entity.”

“Why?”

“Would you believe me if I said I don't want to be in a position that would allow me to exert serious influence over the Ryn and their development?” The droid asked, its tone more than a little suspicious.

“If you hadn't said it like that, then probably,” Athan said, turning to get back to work, only to have the droid swing around and get in his way again.

“Maybe I don't want anyone else to be accountable for my actions,” Smarts said, this time sounding considerably more sincere.

Athan nodded again, swiping at the droid one last time. “I'll see what I can do. The Elders shouldn't give me too much trouble, and the Combined Council really doesn't have a leg to stand on if they want to block this . . . thing you're doing." Athan paused for a moment, scratching his head while his tail wiggled about reflexively. "Maybe one day you'll tell me what this is all about?”

There was a long silence, and finally the orb spoke one last time: “I hope I'll never have to.”





The Ryn are built upon a society of loners and travelers. They are a people pathologically devoted to traversing the stars. They are a people who believed in luck, whim, and chance.

These truths had been reflected in their choice of vessels for their new trade fleet. They stuck to the rugged, tried-and-true vessels that had ploughed the spacelanes for decades at least, millenia at most. They had acquired light and medium freighters by the thousands, most content to haul the kind of small-scale loads that would never make men rich, but would fill their lives with adventure and action. There were still a many super freighters and bulk cruiser seized as well, but these too would likely fly solitary courses, linking up with convoys of opportunity and protected principally by the Coalition security forces that would soon guard this new and vital spacelane.

The Ryn people's way of life had left one main type of transportation open. One vital, economical piece of the grand pie chart that made the galaxy work. There were thousands of them, floating unclaimed, waiting for the day that wouldn't come. They represented something too . . . un-Ryn for anyone to even spare a glance at.

Smarts' newest appropriated eye readjusted on the ranks of modular transport pods, running calculations, checking price tags versus maximum volume, analyzing each model for strengths and weaknesses. This is what he had been looking for; this was how he would succeed.

Everyman's Scalable Freight would fill the single, massive hole left in the Ryn's haphazard approach to assembling a true freighter fleet. When the time was right, when both he and they were ready, this particular subsidiary of the Ryn Galactic Trade Fleet would undoubtedly break free of its parent and take to the skies of the galaxy as its own master, answerable only to itself. Answerable only to Smarts.

When the time is right.

It hadn't been expected, it hadn't been planned, but with the creation of Everyman's Scalable Freight, soon another piece would be in place . . .

“Ah, at last: the venerated Overseer.”

“After a fashion, yes.”

Lady Shen Farool reclined in her chair, studying the stealthy droid with a light stare and friendly smile. “Tell me, Overseer: how may I help you?”

The dark-gray droid tilted to its side, extracting a datapad from a compartment in its side. It took four measured steps and extended its arm across Lady Farool's desk, presenting the datapad to the Chief Admainistrator of TransGalMeg Industries. She leaned forward and accepted it, scrolling down the first page with one finger.

Frowning, she looked up at the droid. “Gallofree Yards?”

“TransGalMeg Industries bought all rights to Gallofree Yards following its bankruptcy; your brother saw to that.”

Glancing back at the datapad, she asked: “You want to revive it?”

“I want you to put its YKL-37R Nova Courier back on the market, along with TransGalMeg's Xiytiar-class transport. And I want you to begin a new production line of the Gozanti Cruiser.”


There was a moment of silence in which Lady Farool tried to recover from the droid's matter-of-fact tone. “Why?”

The droid tilted its head to mirror Lady Farool's inquisitive expression. “Because when I make you the principal starship supplier of a developing Rim, you'll give me what I really want: control of a reactivated Gallofree Yards . . . as a subsidiary of TGM, of course.”

Lady Farool leaned forward, setting the datapad aside, fixing a hard stare on the droid's blank face. “What are you planning, Overseer?”

The gray droid mirrored Lady Farool once more, leaning over her desk, only centimeters from her face. “The salvation of the galaxy, of course.”





The droid stood at the dimly lit end of a long table, the various administrators and directors of TransGalMeg Industries' relevant departments arranged according to no apparent pattern, except perhaps most- to least-trustworthy.

“With the Coalition's trade route nearing completion and Kerrick Arkanus' Coalition-sponsored Outer Rim security force preparing to launch, the Rim will soon be in position for substantial and rapid economic growth. TGM is going to capitalize on that potential. Re-running discontinued but successful starship lines will minimize cost and maximize profits, at least in the Rim, where anything less than three generations old is considered 'brand new'. When we consider that most of the Rim has suffered from at least four decades of economic, political, and legal atrophy; our profit potential only increases. The Rim has nowhere to go but up, and we're going to take it there, even if we have to drag it along with us. Does that sate your thirst for ruthless capitalism?”

“Why don't we just take this plan and leave you behind, droid?” One of the administrator's asked, sneering.

“Because the Chief Administrator has already signed off on the plan.” The droid moved around the table, stepping out of the shadows and bringing its blank face to hover over the offending human. “All I require from you is accommodation, administrator.” The emptiness in the machine's voice served its purpose, and the administrator diverted his eyes as the droid's blank stare bore down on him.

“What kind of resource allocation are we talking about?” Another asked, tapping a datapad to his chin.

The droid turned toward the newest speaker, disregarding its previous focus. “Production will begin at ten percent the total value of outstanding Coalition contracts. We will begin taking orders immediately, and will reevaluate production demands one month from now. Any other questions?”

“What are our long-term goals?”

The droid returned to the darkened end of the room, but didn't bother to face his audience again. “That is not your concern. Just make it happen”





Shen Farool tapped her datapad on her desk, smiling in satisfaction. “I'm content enough with our preliminary reports to proceed. But there is one problem: Gallofree Yards will need a face, and the fact that you keep sneaking into my office with an unregistered droid of unknown design suggests it shouldn't be your face. So, what's the plan?”

“Pick one of your administrators. We will present the plan as his or her idea. For the time being, that will be sufficient. In the future, after I have proven myself to you, when Gallofree Yards is ready to be presented to the galaxy at large once more, we will need to reevaluate the arrangement."

The droid turned to leave, stopping at the door to offer one last thought: "This is just another project, Lady Farool. Undue attention will only complicate our future plans. Let your people play the parts they are suited for, and let the inevitable unfold."

Another piece has fallen into place. In a month's time, Smarts will have proved his usefulness to Lady Shen Farool, Chief Administrator of TransGalMeg Industries. In a month's time, Gallofree Yards will have risen from the ashes.