WHERE DO SIDEWINDERS COME FROM?
It was George, a chatty unkempt pilot Jim met at some bar in... uh, Eravate, was it? No, actually... it was Lhang... something-or-another. Whatever, George was the one filling him in on the whole gist about the "Sidewinder business".
See, most pilots never cared where all those free Sidewinders came from. Or how much business sense it made. Not Jim though. Jim was innately curious. The Sidewinder "business", by no means a secret, was, nevertheless, never on the news. And pilots didn't talk about it. So it took Jim a while to find out. Pilots didn't talk about it, 'cause pilots didn't give a damn. They just cursed their unlucky stars for losing their previous ships (usually including some juicy cargo on-board), then cursed the system for not giving them even more leniency. Dense enough (or greedy) to fly without insurance, the pilots faced with a freshly-minted Sidewinder allowed themselves up to a few days to sulk, downing some dubious (and dubiously-named) brew in the first bar they came across, after--of course--threatening all over the social platforms that they would leave their piloting lives behind and such. They always came back. Simply because, despite all the flashy promises of some space industry or another, despite all space-life's miseries and absurdities, despite the uncanny feeling that the gods themselves were having some easy laughs kicking you in the groin day-in, day-out, there was simply nothing better than the Pilot's Federation. "Once space-touched, always space-touched" shrugged their planet-bound friends and relatives.
Jim realized (how many times already?) that his mind was often drifting from one subject to another. What was he thinking about? Oh, the Sidewinders stuff. It was simple: the feds wanted as many people as possible into space. The reasons for this were "multifold", George told him--smelly pretentious schmuck! "Multifold"--George said, drawing invisible clumsy fractals in the air with his both hands before grabbing his cup--"because, well, more pilots means more trade, more money, more development, more guns into space, more space-muscle to persuade and use one way or another, and, in the end, more economical, military and political influence on a grand scale" George ended smugly, emphasizing his speech with much more clumsier fractals. "Aaah" Jim's eyes lit up. He felt dizzy, just like the first time his visual field took in the whole breadth of a Coriolis docking bay. He said "Aaah" on that particular moment, too. Or no, actually, he said "Whoa!". "Aaah" has a more deductive quality, while "Whoa" is simply--
"So it was the feds." George took a gulp from his cup then made a twisted face: the brew was strong, just how he liked it. The feds wanted as much people as possible into space, he continued, and their eventual profit would be totally worth the initial investment. They wanted to run the galaxy like a well-oiled machine, grinned George. "And we're the oil?" Jim found the thought particularly unflattering. A tiny drop of oil, running down some heartless colossal gears. That's what all his life would amount to? "The Universe doesn't care, man." Indeed. The Leestian Evil Juice felt more comforting than it ever felt since Jim got to legal drinking age.
The rest were just details. The Federation signed some deals with some financial and tech companies, and got the Sidewinders rolling. On the grandest production scale in history, the manufacturing got cheap as chips. "It's the law of large numbers." Yes, George, you schmuck, thought Jim, I know about the law of large numbers. But this is not it. You mean "economies-of-scale", you dummie. "So all that investment money comes back through federal taxes." contemplated Jim. "Precisely. More colonized worlds, more population, more traders, more development, more businesses, more pirates, more ship services, repairs, ship equipment production and so on... It all amounts to more taxes. Plenty of money to pay the investments back." expounded George. "Everybody wins." Jim wondered when did George's grin start to annoy him. He failed to remember a precise moment, if there was any; it was more of an exponential function, and he speculated that his annoyance started to rise to a consciously-perceptible level about the time when George became so smug that he stopped bothering to make that little fractal gesturing of his alltogether. Jim felt like it was precisely the right time to leave. He had some deliveries to make to the neighboring systems.
"Be seeing you among the stars, George." Jim stood up and downed his remaining drink in a big gulp. He set the cup down on the table with a calculated thud, handle pointing to the bar counter.
"Fly safe, Hoffmann!" George's farewell was as common as G-type main sequence stars.
It was George, a chatty unkempt pilot Jim met at some bar in... uh, Eravate, was it? No, actually... it was Lhang... something-or-another. Whatever, George was the one filling him in on the whole gist about the "Sidewinder business".
See, most pilots never cared where all those free Sidewinders came from. Or how much business sense it made. Not Jim though. Jim was innately curious. The Sidewinder "business", by no means a secret, was, nevertheless, never on the news. And pilots didn't talk about it. So it took Jim a while to find out. Pilots didn't talk about it, 'cause pilots didn't give a damn. They just cursed their unlucky stars for losing their previous ships (usually including some juicy cargo on-board), then cursed the system for not giving them even more leniency. Dense enough (or greedy) to fly without insurance, the pilots faced with a freshly-minted Sidewinder allowed themselves up to a few days to sulk, downing some dubious (and dubiously-named) brew in the first bar they came across, after--of course--threatening all over the social platforms that they would leave their piloting lives behind and such. They always came back. Simply because, despite all the flashy promises of some space industry or another, despite all space-life's miseries and absurdities, despite the uncanny feeling that the gods themselves were having some easy laughs kicking you in the groin day-in, day-out, there was simply nothing better than the Pilot's Federation. "Once space-touched, always space-touched" shrugged their planet-bound friends and relatives.
Jim realized (how many times already?) that his mind was often drifting from one subject to another. What was he thinking about? Oh, the Sidewinders stuff. It was simple: the feds wanted as many people as possible into space. The reasons for this were "multifold", George told him--smelly pretentious schmuck! "Multifold"--George said, drawing invisible clumsy fractals in the air with his both hands before grabbing his cup--"because, well, more pilots means more trade, more money, more development, more guns into space, more space-muscle to persuade and use one way or another, and, in the end, more economical, military and political influence on a grand scale" George ended smugly, emphasizing his speech with much more clumsier fractals. "Aaah" Jim's eyes lit up. He felt dizzy, just like the first time his visual field took in the whole breadth of a Coriolis docking bay. He said "Aaah" on that particular moment, too. Or no, actually, he said "Whoa!". "Aaah" has a more deductive quality, while "Whoa" is simply--
"So it was the feds." George took a gulp from his cup then made a twisted face: the brew was strong, just how he liked it. The feds wanted as much people as possible into space, he continued, and their eventual profit would be totally worth the initial investment. They wanted to run the galaxy like a well-oiled machine, grinned George. "And we're the oil?" Jim found the thought particularly unflattering. A tiny drop of oil, running down some heartless colossal gears. That's what all his life would amount to? "The Universe doesn't care, man." Indeed. The Leestian Evil Juice felt more comforting than it ever felt since Jim got to legal drinking age.
The rest were just details. The Federation signed some deals with some financial and tech companies, and got the Sidewinders rolling. On the grandest production scale in history, the manufacturing got cheap as chips. "It's the law of large numbers." Yes, George, you schmuck, thought Jim, I know about the law of large numbers. But this is not it. You mean "economies-of-scale", you dummie. "So all that investment money comes back through federal taxes." contemplated Jim. "Precisely. More colonized worlds, more population, more traders, more development, more businesses, more pirates, more ship services, repairs, ship equipment production and so on... It all amounts to more taxes. Plenty of money to pay the investments back." expounded George. "Everybody wins." Jim wondered when did George's grin start to annoy him. He failed to remember a precise moment, if there was any; it was more of an exponential function, and he speculated that his annoyance started to rise to a consciously-perceptible level about the time when George became so smug that he stopped bothering to make that little fractal gesturing of his alltogether. Jim felt like it was precisely the right time to leave. He had some deliveries to make to the neighboring systems.
"Be seeing you among the stars, George." Jim stood up and downed his remaining drink in a big gulp. He set the cup down on the table with a calculated thud, handle pointing to the bar counter.
"Fly safe, Hoffmann!" George's farewell was as common as G-type main sequence stars.