Blackstone Code

Back at the institute, Lynch sat in the conference room, listening to the researchers discuss the features of the aircraft.

As the boss, when he named it an airplane, the chief engineer could only praise the name as perfectly fitting for a flying machine—they had no say beyond that.

“I already know the technical specs. Now, who can tell me what the cost would be if we mass-produce it on an assembly line?”

Most of these researchers were skilled but underappreciated talents Lynch had poached from major heavy industry firms.

This kind of situation was common in research institutions—people with no involvement in a project would somehow always have their names listed first when results came out, while those who actually moved the project forward were pushed to the bottom.

Was it fair?

Some might say no, but in its own way, it was.

Many researchers followed a straight path from school into research institutes, never touching the real world.

They didn’t know—or care—that they had messed up a critical experiment last week, causing grief for the balding institute director who acted tough internally but grovelled externally.

Researchers never had to think about how much money they wasted—they only cared about their progress. Yet the very thing they ignored was the foundation of all their work: funding.

Lynch had appointed an engine engineer—one of the more worldly ones—as chief engineer. Beyond design, his role focused on coordination and management.

He understood what truly powered a research institute.

It wasn’t the seemingly invaluable researchers or their knowledge—it was how much money the institute could burn through to let them waste at will.

With enough money and Lynch’s reputation, what kind of scientist couldn’t he bring in?

Alongside formally trained researchers, there were also independent scientists here—people who knew firsthand the pain of underfunded research. Unlike traditional researchers, they had to manage their own funds and even raise investment. They were more flexible and easier to work with.

The chief engineer and a few of the more business-savvy researchers quickly calculated the numbers and gave Lynch a price he found acceptable.

“Just for the engine, we can bring the cost down to just over 20,000 sols per unit.”

As he said this, the chief engineer’s heart pounded. The independent scientists blushed with excitement. They would receive 5% of sales revenue as a bonus—1,000 sols per engine.

Sell one engine, earn 1,000. Sell 100, earn 100,000.

The Federation was huge—even without military orders, just selling to flying enthusiasts across the country or the world could easily move 1,000 units.

That’s a million sols—each person could walk away with at least a few thousand, maybe even tens of thousands. How could they not be excited?

And this income would be continuous, until the engine became obsolete. The profit margin was so high it left them breathless.

Lynch nodded, memorizing the figure, then asked, “If we use a full aluminum body, with all components included, what’s the total cost?”

Another round of quick calculations.

“Just under 40,000 sols…”

At this stage, many commodities hadn’t yet surged in price. Gold, for example, was steadily rising but still only slightly over 50 sols per ounce. A ton of gold was just a little over a million sols—which is why you could still buy and sell goldware at roadside antique shops.

Aluminum alloy wasn’t cheap—at least compared to cast iron—but it was still cheaper than gold.

The fuselage and parts together costing under 40,000? Lynch’s first thought was: too cheap.

Just as he was about to discuss the costs of additional value-added products, Austin coughed lightly.

“Mr. Lynch, there’s a call for you.”

Lynch nodded, excused himself, and left the conference room.

The moment the door closed, the chief engineer and the researchers couldn’t hold back their smiles.

They’d earn a share from full aircraft sales too. They could already see a bright future waving at them.

Of course, some researchers felt the quoted price was too high.

“You could’ve given a more precise number—not more than 35,000…”

The chief engineer looked a bit helpless, even impatient, but still needed these academic researchers for a lot of tasks. “We have to account for the defect rate…”

The researcher who spoke up was stunned. He felt the engineer was wrong, but couldn’t pinpoint why—so he shut up.

Meanwhile, Lynch walked into a side room—he was alone.

The phone sat on a low table beside the couch, receiver already off the hook, clearly connected.

He sat down, picked up the receiver. “This is Lynch…”

Immediately, Truman’s familiar voice came through. It sounded exasperated. “What the hell are you up to now? The Security Council, Military Intelligence, Defense Ministry, and Internal Affairs are all here. You’d better have an explanation, or you’re in trouble this time!”

News that two seemingly identical mass-production aircraft had appeared outside Eminence quickly alarmed the federal leadership. This was not the time for an airshow.

The cold weather made the fuselage materials more brittle than in summer, increasing the risk of wing breakage during high-angle maneuvers.

It was also harsh on pilots—the freezing air could cause frostbite.

And the word mass-production was sensitive. The Defense Ministry quickly formed a military investigation team to determine whether this was an accident or a statement.

Eminence’s security was too important. No room for mistakes.

For twenty years, the Federation had fantasized about a nonexistent enemy attacking Eminence. That paranoia finally proved useful.

Soon, though, the alert zone reported back—it was Lynch’s aircraft institute conducting new test flights, and the aircraft had accidentally entered the restricted area.

If it were anyone else claiming it was an accident, they’d be laughed at.

But if Mr. Lynch said it was an accident—then it was an accident.

Though the matter seemed settled, people remained fixated on one word: mass-production.

Gephran ultra-fast submarines remained a major threat to the Federal Navy, and the only countermeasure was high-angle, low-altitude vertical sea scanning by human observers.

Because submarines can’t dive very deep—their metal structure and design don’t allow for it—looking straight down from above, without being blocked by surface reflections, reveals dark shadows moving slowly through the water.

Anti-submarine research has become the top priority, and anti-submarine balloons are one of the most in-demand military tools right now.

Given that seawater is, after all, water, military scientists believe the balloons can be flown at altitudes over 100 meters—say, between 150 and 200 meters—towed by speedboats to conduct rapid surface-level anti-submarine patrols.

Honestly… it’s a stupid idea, but it’s the only one that seems workable at the moment.

If you equip balloon scouts with devices to slow their fall, even if they land in the water, they won’t die right away and can wait for rescue. This way, scouts aren’t treated as disposable, and the coverage area for anti-submarine patrols increases—win-win.

Sure, it’s slower and more affected by weather, but right now, it’s the only available solution.

Until today—Lynch’s aircraft test seemed to be a success. According to the lieutenant colonel, both aircraft landed smoothly with no issues. Suddenly, people’s thinking began to shift.

That’s how people are—when there’s only one option, even if it’s crap, they’ll swallow it.

But once there’s another choice, even just one more, they won’t just swallow crap anymore—unless the new option is crap too.

The advantages of aircraft quickly came to mind.

Efficient, fast, with a wider operational range, and even capable of penetrating enemy territory—unlike high-altitude balloons that can only operate in suitable weather within a safe zone.

Most importantly, what drew people to the aircraft was its offensive capability.

So the discussion began: should they study this seriously?

And if you asked who had the best relationship with Lynch, the answer was clearly Colonel Truman.

As the First Minister, Military Colonel, and Advisor and close friend to the President, Truman was in the perfect position to get involved.

His call for accountability came exactly as Lynch had expected. With a half-smile, Lynch said, “I sincerely apologize for any trouble I may have caused. I truly didn’t realize my pilots had flown into restricted airspace.”

“Fortunately, they returned in time without causing any serious consequences. I’m willing to take full responsibility for what happened.”

He said it as if he’d really forgotten he had personally ordered the pilots to fly over the restricted zone.

Truman paused for a moment. “We need to see your aircraft. Immediately. The President is coming too.”

Lynch didn’t find it odd that others wanted to come—but the President? That caught him off guard.

“Should I be informed of something in advance?”

Truman picked up on the undertone. “Security measures. If you’d seen two Secret Service agents shove the President’s head down and drag him into a bunker, you’d understand why he’s curious about what caused that reaction.”