NIH Chpt 2

<<Previous Chapter - Return to Story Index - Next Chapter>>
==Not Invented HereChapter 2 - Regional Differences==
----
"While it's true there are some things the Order keeps secret, and there are better-optimized weapons systems, for the last time, there is no AC/5 cabal! You might as well ask whether there's a, a, an internal combustion engine cabal! Things just happened that way!"Transcript of "History of Star League Defense Force 101", unnamed lecturer to new ComStar recruits c. 2945
----
Turnerville - Wynn's Roost - Outworlds Wastes
----
When he woke up it was still light, though faded from the slightly-too-bright afternoon. This perpetual daylight was messing with his head. Looking around, it could be a room out of any hotel in the Inner Sphere, if pleasingly rustic. The vaulted ceiling and mosaic of starry nights made him feel like he was in some sort of temple, though.
 
He'd gotten a hang of the clock (finally) and while he wasn't getting up in the dark, having fallen asleep round about late evening/early morning, adjusting to the planetary day would be a trial. He wondered if they'd ever heard of sunlight lamps.
 
It took some finagling for confirmation of a meeting place and time with the voice over the phone, preceded by a thorough examination of the phonebook to see if Innovations Inc. actually existed; given the speed of FTL, it wasn't unheard-of for technology companies to cease existing sometime before a new worker arrived.
 
Finally, having asked the landlord for a different taxi-firm (to avoid rumor spreading), Ferguson was being taken out into the countryside. Deep into the countryside. Planets were always bigger when you were rolling across the surface of them, and the twists and turns of the various one-lane roads that crisscrossed what seemed to be endless farmland never seemed to end.
 
There was no electronic guidance system, but the driver seemed to know this place so well that he was zeroing in on it like an ant finding a picnic.
 
Ferguson wasn't worried, per se: weapons manufacturers usually needed remote locations for their testing ranges, and given what he was here for, explosions were practically guaranteed.
 
Trepidation did increase a notch when he was taken up a long and winding dirt track past piles of rusting combine harvesters, tractors, commercial trucks, old cars in various states of repair. It was only once they'd passed a rather nice farmhouse that the quality of the junk changed. Tracks replaced wheels. The corroded, burned remains of some sort of tank could be seen in a field, surrounded by scorch marks and plates of metal. He relaxed a bit. This was expected. He paid the driver a ruinous amount of C-bills (with a grudging tip), wondering where the hell he was and where the hell the supposed CEO of Innovations Inc. was. When he'd first seen the job posting for a vehicle tech over a year ago, asking for help regarding some revolutionary new technology, normally it would have passed out of sight, but it had been taken out of his hands since certain key words had been included in the copy. So off he was sent by his boss into the literal middle of fricking nowhere.
 
None of that. Any distaste or contempt he may or may not feel for the conditions or for his management had to be kept off his face. He was here for a job. He could see a rather large brick-walled, tile-roofed barn around the back, and the sound of an air wrench reached his ears now the sound of the car had faded into the countryside.
 
He advanced across the gravel and pulverized concrete of the yard before he was confronted with a goat. A very small goat. It came trotting towards Ferguson and stopped as if daring him to approach, staring at him with its odd slit eyes. Its coarse coat was dusty. It came closer. Maybe it could smell his fear. It began rearing to headbutt his knee, gently at first, but with surprising strength, and man was forced to give way to goat lest he have his first day on the job cut short. He was trying to deflect the attentions of it, debating the wisdom of grabbing the goat by the horns, when a shout of, "Gerrof him, Bicorn!" chased it off, leaving it glaring at him from a safe distance.
 
The man came up to Ferguson, cleaning something oily off his hands with a rag, and shook his hand. "Sorry 'bout that. Right evil wee bastard, but he's a good guard. Didn' expect you so soon, we're still setting up. Name's-"
 
"-Mr. Francis Devolo, am I right? Pleasure to meet you, I'm James Ferguson. I take it you're my new boss?"
 
There had been something off about the handshake. Strong, rough and confident, the hand of any manual labourer, but... With a moment of shock, he realized that what he'd taken for an unusually large thumb was a big toe, grafted on where the thumb would have been. Closer examination - he knew he was staring, but he couldn't help it - revealed the raised scars of old burns and pockmarks from shrapnel over the back of the hand, fingers and forearms.
 
There was a wry grin on Mr. Devolo's lined face. "Aye, happened about two, two-half decades ago, now. Ammo bin was hit while I was a tanker. Started a fire. Like ah bloody c'nt I stayed an' tried to put it out. Was lucky ah only lost a thumb." He waggled it in front of him, clearly enjoying Ferguson's discomfort. "Hehehe. Ye could say I'm motivated."
 
"I'll... bet. Sorry, that was rude of me."
 
"No bother. Why don't you come in the shop for a cup o' coffee, take that mask off ye?"
 
"Thank you very much."
 
Ferguson followed Mr. Devolo in to a side door of the warehouse, a rusted sign above it proclaiming the name of the company. His ears registered the positive pressure inside even as the puff of filtered air coming from the opened door made him blink. It carried the scent of engine oil, spilled diesel and hydraulic fluid - instantly recognizable, even through the mask. He breathed deeply despite himself. A nostalgic smell, despite the carcinogens he was no doubt inhaling.
 
The inside of the shop was a little cleaner than he had anticipated, but it was still a chaotic mess. His eye was drawn to a pile of metal boxes, some blackened, some with holes melted through, and a few rusted ones on the bottom blown apart from the inside, sides curled like a discarded banana skin.
 
A hulk of a Scorpion Tank, denuded of its turret, was set up on a heavy industrial inspection platform. The turret itself was laid on wooden blocks beside it. A gangly, brown-skinned youth, bearing a family resemblance to Devolo, was stood inside the upside-down turret, scratching his head over a partially-disassembled ammo feed mechanism. Ferguson itched to take his air-wrench off him and show him how it was done. Thankfully it was empty; he'd seen some real stupidity amongst his fellow trainees.
 
Over in the corner he could see an actual wooden shed that was set up as an office slash breakroom. It was this that Mr. Devolo was striding towards, and he followed him in.
 
His boss-to-be hooked on a pair of glasses and began flicking through a well-used file cabinet.
 
"Got t' say, this is unusual. Big companies like Lycomb-Davion don't normally take notice when the arse-end o' nowhere asks for help, an' they're no' in the habit of sending over techs wi' your CV." He found whatever pieces of paper he'd been looking for and peered at one. "Lessee... explosives tech, 5 years experience as a mechtech, supervisor in an electronics production facility... Why, ah swear you were tailor-made, enough that ah coudn' say no." He looked at his erstwhile hire suspiciously. "Somethin' yer not tellin' me?"
 
This was slightly disconcerting, and Ferguson upgraded the running tally of sophistication in his head. Fortunately, he had more cards to play. The key to negotiation was ensuring both sides got something out of it. He straightened up and relaxed his shoulders, as if relieved to no longer be putting on a facade.
 
"Ah, you caught me. It's no big secret - my employers are extremely interested in licensing this technology. The resurgence of working CASE will be a game-changer, even more so if we have a virtual monopoly outside of Defiance." He reached into his briefcase and brought out a bundle of paper. "If you are amenable, I have been authorized to assist you in refining the technology with an eye towards purchasing full rights to production."
 
Suddenly cold slate-blue eyes locked with his black-brown eyes. "An you'll pick out every secret ah have in the process. I did no' risk risk life an' fuckin' limb fer nine fuckin' YEARS, then work lik' ah fuckin' dog for almos' three times longer th'n that jus' t' gie me life's work the fuck away t' some FedRat."
 
Ferguson fleetingly thought of escape, and of the pulse laser pistol hidden in his briefcase. Only fleetingly, though.
 
"Of course not, sir! They will of course allow native production and sale." A hint of protest that he'd dare accuse him like that. "All my employers ask is that it not spread much beyond the Outworlds Alliance; a non-compete contract, if you will."
 
He let some of the nervousness he was feeling leak out. "Personally, I'd also really appreciate it if you didn't kick me out on to the street. Er, sir." Or, he thought, shoot me and dump me in an unmarked grave. There were stories of techs just vanishing around new technologies.
 
"If you'll look through the proposal, sir, you'll see the provisional asking price of the technology. I have been authorized to release 10 percent straight away as startup capital."
 
Devolo took the packet and flipped through it warily. Ferguson could tell when he got to the good part as his eyes widened.
 
"Fuck me." He looked up at Ferguson and down again at the paper. "That's a lot o' zeroes."
 
"Your proposal was carefully worded, but every manufacturer in New Avalon watches the postings. As soon as it was evaluated, they sent me at the same time as my CV. This has potential to be extremely lucrative for each of us."
 
There was still a bit of wariness in his erstwhile boss's eyes as he looked him over. "Yer not sayin' what you're gettin' out o' this. Fer all you know ah coulda been talkin' out my arse."
 
"Simple, sir. As you'll see... here," Ferguson pointed at the relevant clause, "five percent of the commission is mine, payable upon delivery of a completed contract and full technical specs for a working production model. If nothing comes of it, I have to wait for a Dropship to come pick me up, which could take months, even years." He smiled slyly. "You could say I'm motivated."
 
Devolo barked out a grudging laugh. "Hah! Well, ye got me there. I'll sign ye on fer now, provisional, like." He handed Ferguson a contract to sign on a clipboard, which he did, and proffered a hand to shake. "Welcome aboard, son."
 
He shook it firmly. "It's a pleasure to be here."
----
<<Previous Chapter - Return to Story Index - Next Chapter>>
02, Chapter