NIH Chpt 7

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==Not Invented HereChapter 7 - Technical Difficulties==
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Hey Diana? Did I ever tell you how I got Mama's Boy up to forty kph once?""Forty? Did you get out and push, Enrique?""Funny. Pretty simple, actually: we had a 'mech try its level frickin' best to stomp us flat. Tends to focus the mind. We found some approximation of a road, removed the governor and didn't let off the throttle till we rejoined the front line, firing backwards at the metal asshole the whole way. I swear he held his gearbox together through force of will.""Mama kicked every single one of your asses for wrecking her shiny baby, eh?" "Absolutely."- The Fighting Suns, episode 1 "Behemoth and the Hare", Inner Sphere Productions
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===Part 1===
Outskirts of Turnville - Wynn's Roost, Outworlds Wastes
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The militia base was, by necessity, quite close to Turnerville itself. So it was not too much of a surprise to have Devolo pick him up at his boarding house.
 
What was was the presence of a tall young woman waiting beside his boss.
 
"Mister Ferguson, hello there!"
 
If he didn't miss his guess, this was Lionora. How could his luck be this good and bad at the same time? He was going to bring it up, but he'd lost the initiative in the game and now he was slightly lost himself.
 
She was olive-tan, tall-ish, sensibly short brown hair, with keen blue-green eyes that were currently narrowed. Dressed in cheap office-casual, her arms were also crossed. Ferguson also spotted a few long-healed burn scars on her right index finger and thumb, as if she'd accidentally grasped something hot. Nails unpainted.
 
"You're a hard man to get hold of, ye know. I know it's kinda pushy, but ye can't leave a girl and her uncle hanging for a month. Had to take a half-day."
 
Good, Devolo seemed to be as lost as he was. She must have just met him. Though there was also a sense of recognition; she was known to him at least, some cousin or niece twice removed or whatever. Family trees here must spread like a mangrove forest.
 
Lost... Neglected tradecraft suddenly flooded back in on a wave of suspicion. He did not know her, they'd never met and Devolo didn't know whether he had. "Friend of a friend of the family" was a well-worn technique of ingratiating yourself within a social group. If this was another embedded ROM agent sent to watch him, she could have easily befriended the real Lionora and simply gleaned the details in normal conversation. (He'd used a similar technique to judge the refinery's sophistication, even.) Even the soldering burn, native accent and mannerisms was no guarantee, as the small ComStar compound that ran the decrepit HPG recruited from the locals. Hell, it could even be a simple deception by some co-worker trying to steal a plum job.
 
Ferguson tamped down his descent into paranoia. This, this was why he disliked spy work: you were never sure.
 
Unfortunately, it could also be a social convention here to go in person if someone did not call back.
 
No way out but through; he stuck out his hand. "You must be Lionora."
 
"Pleased," she said, shaking his hand. Somewhat limp, but she probably wasn't the type, and hadn't read the same business manuals as him.
 
"Now," she continued, "I was just talking to Mr. Devolo about Uncle Emilio. Turns out he fixed several trucks for him and his family, did ye know?"
 
"Aye, ah think ah remember. The old blue one?"
 
"Mm. It's still running, y'know? Younger brother got it."
 
"Izzat so?"
 
"Anyway." She coughed politely. "I see you've landed on your feet, but I wondered why you were working for a garage of all things."
 
Blake's Balls, what a situation. He absolutely needed her, but at this second didn't trust her any further than he could throw her. While a good impression was vital, "We're redeveloping CASE" was not only a great hook, it was more than he was willing to admit, even to an employee- ahh.
 
"Well, we do more than fix cars and vans; Mr. Devolo is working on a project for the militia. Though we can't really say more than that to a current employee of the competition. You understand, don't you?"
 
Come on, take the hint...
 
"Aye, lass. It's a mite unfair to us to come round an' expect to know you. You haven't really said why you're lookin' for him in the first place."
 
"Oh, I am so sorry. Let's start again? I am Lionora Ortiz-Cardiel, 24 Terran years old and I come with a letter of recommendation from my uncle, Emelio Cardiel. I have a degree in Opto-Electronics and am practiced with most office software." She hesitated. "Uh, please give me a job making stuff?" Her shoulders slumped. "Ach, I hate being put on the spot."
 
"Well boss, what do you think?"
 
"Ah think we'd better give her a proper interview. You caught us at a bad time, miss, but ah can't say you don't have a chance." He reached into his truck and unearthed a used envelope from the detritus on the dashboard, scribbling the workshop's address and exchanging for the recommendation. "Come round at 10 this Saturday. Bring yer tools and dress for practical."
 
"Heh, now you're talkin' my language."
 
"We may also require you to sign an NDA." said Ferguson.
 
"And now you're talking yours. Suppose I can't complain, really. The stuff they have me handlin' right now..." Her eyes widened, and she 'zipped' her mouth up. "Crap. Pretend I didn' say a thing. I know nothing."
 
Ferguson's curiosity struggled with his paranoia, but he fought it down. Now he was sure Mackenzie was working on something new. "Understood, understood. See you Saturday, then."
 
As they waved her off, he thought about the slip. Perversely, it was slightly reassuring that she was not some hyper-competent uber-tech like he was supposed to be, though there was always the double-bluff. If she had been briefed on him, she would definitely dangle a juicy technical detail. The old quote of "there exists a bait he cannot resist swallowing" was more applicable to him than most.
 
But then, paranoia limited agents just as well as being an asset.
 
"Wanna tell what that was about, Ferguson? 'Cause I'm sure Mackenzie knows what I'm doin'."
 
Right, they were in the truck now & driving away. "Appropriate caution, boss. Have you ever been offworld?"
 
"No, but... Is this the Drain?"
 
"The what?"
 
"Friend-of-a-friend story. You always hear of someone who talked to someone from offworld who swears that there's someone or something goin' around making things difficult for innovators. You proved yourself, but ah always had that in the back of me mind."
 
Well, damn. He made the jump well before., he thought: 'unknowing, not unaware' was definitely in effect here. Roll with it.
 
"It had a name? But yes, you get these... stories. A tech working on zero-gee refining on a space station dies of carbon monoxide poisoning. A university suffers a HF gas leak and the electronics department is trashed. That sort of thing?"
 
"Aye, you got it." Devolo glanced over at him. "Awfully specific examples. You sayin' it's real?"
 
Shit. How close could he fly to this particular sun? Ferguson licked his lips nervously, but covered that with a conspiratorial look to the side to 'check'. "It's real, or at least Lycomb-Davion believed in it, enough that everyone was screened before they even got close to an interview. Out there, industrial espionage is sometimes backed by mercenary raids; I can totally believe there's a group or groups out there that's got into bed with one noble House or another to keep the disruptive elements down." He frowned. "Even if Ms. Cardiel is above-board, it's just good sense to keep quiet. Someone could give her a nice 'severance bonus' to keep an eye on us, for instance. Please, be careful."
"Alright," he said, nodding slowly. "Ah'll keep it in mind."
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===Part 2===
Militia Base - Wynn's Roost, Outworlds Wastes
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Once they got to the base, which was over the worn-down rim of the caldera basin, Ferguson was surprised by the size. He'd been to both tiny yards with a few tanks and massive compounds, and to come across an average-sized military base on a planet this far into the Periphery was a rare thing.
 
The concrete walls and machine-gun bunkers at regular intervals indicated they were serious about defense, even if a 'Mech could simply fly over the top of the wall.
 
Similarly, even though Devolo was all but waved in with his civilian pass, Ferguson had to sign the register and wait for the okay from the militia commander before he was handed a visitor's pass. The gate guard looked strangely at him after he came off the phone, as if she couldn't quite credit that this person was here.
 
He refrained from asking if she thought mechtechs only appeared to the virtuous and pure.
 
Driving in, there were all the sights he expected to see, but given a Wynn's Roost spin. The dormitories, administrative buildings, garages and sheds were present and correct. However, they were probably the only ones in the galaxy made out of acid-resistant glazed brick and tiled roofs. Sensibly colored in a muted yellow-green, sculpted with flutes and flourishes, it gave the impression of a picturesque town. Only the larger warehouses spoiled the effect.
 
The large lightpoles evenly spaced across the concrete also spoke of the planet's long nights.
 
There were gaps, big gaps, in the neat line of blockhouses, and signs of former foundations: a rusted pipe here, a path leading nowhere there. Clearly this base had been targeted more than once. The few that had been rebuilt were simpler, cruder ones in normal brick that disrupted the symmetry further, mute indications of the toll taken on Turner's Irregulars over the past century.
 
Of BattleMechs, there were no sign. The old brick-built warehouse in the far right corner could contain something, but the grass and weeds choking the structure, and the asphalt slowly degenerating into a gravel path was telling of its lack of use.
 
A double line of troopers came jogging alongside the road, wearing breathing masks and goggles. There seemed to be a lack of coordination in fatigues, some wearing civilian clothes, some in the same sandy-green as the buildings, some in urban black, blue and grey camo. A training session or something? Ferguson didn't concern himself overmuch with foot infantry, despite their classical role.
 
It might be an avenue to explore, though. Properly dug in and well-equipped, nothing was sneakier, and they were cheap to equip. A well-armoured personnel carrier and some mechanisation could make them a terror... He pulled his mind back to where he was and what he was doing.
 
The majority of the inside space was taken up by a fair-sized expanse of ferrocrete and asphalt; what was probably the aerodrome for the pilots was off in the distance among a beautifully-arranged compound within the compound. Indeed, the garage he could see an Atacama driving into was situated against the wall next to the gate, which Devolo told him was the rear. The wider side gate that led out on to the runway proper was clear across the other side.
 
This was more in line with what he had been expecting. Probably all of the tank corps were shoved off with the 'crunchies'.
 
Pretty soon they were in the car-park and walking in towards the commander's office.
 
Ferguson took in the guard at the door, focusing more on the equipment than the person: some sort of auto-rifle with an underslung grenade launcher, looked to be a Barret knockoff - good quality, but wood furniture, really? - a hardshell torso cover, and a full-face firefighter-style gas mask. She looked just about done with everything, but silently opened the door.
 
Inside sat a man at a desk covered with paperwork, staring tiredly at a sheet of paper. Tall, hair sensibly cropped, dark-skinned (darker than Ferguson, obvious African ancestry) sporting a dense, curly black beard. He looked up to take in his visitors, brightening a little once he recognized Devolo. He rose from his desk to shake their hands.
 
Hm. Handshake firm, with some obvious power behind it, but not crushing.
 
"Francis Devolo, and Mr. James Ferguson. I'm Commander Xoli Jawara of Turner's Irregulars. Welcome to Broken Heart Base."
 
"Pleasure." said Devolo.
 
"I look forward to working with your engineers." said Ferguson.
 
"Mr. Devolo, I don't believe we've met in person, though my predecessor and the retired Lieutenant McMicheal spoke well of your service, both in and out of the armoured division."
 
"Ah, thank you. Ye heard about Innovations' secret project?"
 
"I have. It seems like it's going to bear fruit sooner than anticipated, if in something of a different form." He smiled meaningfully at Ferguson. "Tell me, how did Brenda rope you in?"
 
"Sir, knowledge exchange. She provides her valuable time to train some employees, I clued her into some alloys I was working on at Lycomb-Davion." Smile back, project smart but humble technician, do not annoy and close off avenues. "Unfortunately, she was better than I'd thought, so to seal the deal, she extracted a favour and sent me here."
 
"Yes, she always was clever. I was sad to see her go. Now, your official role here will be that of an observer assessing the technical expertise of the militia."
 
Not a flicker of alarm appeared on Ferguson's face. None.
 
"Unofficially, you will be lending your own expertise to the motor pool and the ASF techs to refurbish as much as you can. Normally, I would have a solid month of paperwork to approve this, but I need results now." The commander's face hardened. "You may have seen the scars of the latest pirate raid when you arrived; since then we have been scrambling to replace personnel and equipment we lost. You are sorely needed, Mr. Ferguson."
 
"Sir, I will do my best."
 
The commander rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I suppose it's only fair to warn you."
 
"Sir?"
 
"As we are so short of manpower, I have to tolerate insubordination and attitudes that would normally land the perpetrator a night in the base's jail, especially from the airbase. Our aerospace technicians are... committed."
 
"Or to put it another way, they've got egos a mile wide an' pride a mile deep? Yeah, we know. Ah'll keep 'em in line, don't you worry," said Devolo.
 
"I see you're as forthright as I was led to believe, Mr. Devolo. Will you have a problem, Mr. Ferguson?"
 
The weary look he gave Ferguson was an implicit plea not to become one.
 
"I'm... familiar with combative personalities, sir. There will be no problem."
 
He tried to ignore Devolo's eye-roll. He was getting better at this - honest.
 
They turned to leave, but the commander stopped them. "One more thing. I have a personal request. As a veteran of the service, and a highly skilled technician, you each have or will gain a certain amount of 'star power'. I would be indebted to Innovations if you could leverage that to bridge the divide between the two branches."
Ferguson didn't miss his boss' grimace, but... Damn it all, now they had had a favor offered, they had to try it.
 
"We'll do our best, sir."
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===Part 3===
The Motor Pool, Militia Base - Wynn's Roost, Outworlds Wastes
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Outside, the guard waved down a passing 4x4 to take them around the place. All the bases on all the planets he'd been on seemed to hold that things needed done now, soldier. Thus the begoggled driver of the four-man buggy hared off like they were auditioning for a Davion action holo, nearly cracking Ferguson's head off the roll-cage.
 
"Where am I taking ye, boys?" yelled the driver.
 
"Tank garage first, please," shouted Ferguson. Devolo seemed to be asking why, before he seemed to come to his own conclusion. Ferguson tried to indicate he had a plan, but he was sure whatever it was his boss was thinking, it was wrong.
 
"Will do!"
 
Ferguson was delaying seeing the ASFs like putting off visiting a chronically ill-relative, because said visit meant you immediately had to pick up a scalpel. In comparison, finally examining Mackenzie's hardware in the steel was scratching an annoying itch. The promotional catalogue had been a disappointment: "full expression of military might"; "paid for by the good people of Wynn's Roost"; very few details beside the pictures. Not a peep about how, say, the electronics functioned or who their suppliers could be. As if a backwater company had secrets worth concealing.
 
There was no substitute for hands-on examination.
 
Perhaps he was looking forward to discovering how far the competition had advanced. A bit.
 
They were dropped off outside the warehouse, close enough Ferguson could feel the breeze from the air curtain. The bass crackle of arc welding and the bouquet of diesel, dust and hydraulic fluid still took him back. Only the background stench of sulphur reminded him where he currently was. That and...
 
There they were.
 
Row upon row of... dusty machines? Some visibly dented? He chided himself. These were working vehicles, going up against mechs; no piece of hardware could be factory-fresh after that.
 
Eight or nine hovercraft - single cab, decently low-slung - were parked, skirts deflated, over to the side. Looked to have a machine-gun. These would be the Sulphurmanders. One also looked to have a laser-burn straight through the windshield that had set the interior on fire. Two more had clear 'Mech footprints in the wreckage where their cabs should have been. Eesh.
 
Approximately thirty Atacamas crowded the center, one just disgorging its crew of three. It looked to be awfully cramped with an extra loader, but they appeared to have mitigated the Scorpion's horrific egress with a spring-loaded hatch. The 100mm smoothbore rifle at least looked more imposing than a Deleon's 85mm barrel.
 
On the near-left were a row of Hardiman APCs. Midway between the ubiquitous normals and 20-ton heavies, they had an interesting 'vee' shape on the undercarriage - he hadn't seen one like that outside of the very oldest catalogues.
Off in the far-right corner, two hulking tanks, much larger than anything else in the shed, lay like toppled monoliths under their tarps. Not as dusty as the rest, and there were footprints around them. Fresh footprints. Ferguson filed that away next to Ms. Ortiz-Cardiel's slip, and his suspicion grew tracks and a gun.
 
There was no sign of the infamous Barrow. Probably with the support branch.
 
They breached the threshold, and as they gained a full view of the warehouse, there were far less techs than he expected. Wasn't this a planetary militia?
 
Ah hell, of course: there had been a raid. Casualties would have also occurred in the support arm. But this many? It must have struck a forward field base. Going for the soft underbelly of the support was (still) a viable tactic, even when it was understood that breaking the unspoken agreements meant you were no longer protected by them in turn.
 
Silence had fallen; the fifteen-and-a-half pairs of tired, strung-out eyes of the techs and the crew appraised the newcomers: Devolo in overalls like theirs, Ferguson in an off-world suit. Some weariness left their faces at the sight.
 
Oh, nono, don't look at me like that!, thought Ferguson. I'm no knight, don't put me on a white horse.
 
A tanned, white-haired woman who seemed the most senior called them over.
 
"Welcome, welcome, come in! You're Miss Brenda's employee, correct?"
 
Oh dear. Devolo's lips thinned, but thankfully that was all. "I am Francis Devolo of Innovations Inc. and this is Mr. Ferguson, who is helping me with a project you may have heard of."
"Ohh, you're that Francis. Sorry."
"Right, I heard o' ye."
"Pleasure to meet you both."
"I have got to poke yer brains later. Both o' you!"
The techs surrounded them and shook hands. Ferguson stood back to let Devolo handle the heavy social lifting. Then back a bit more so he could appraise the hardware again.
 
To his eye they had a certain brutal elegance. Quickcell's practicality and cheapness influenced the tank, sure, but he could see a lot of shared DNA between the hovercraft and APC: the way their driver's cabs sloped into a triangular wedge, in the angled, slab sides and nacelles to squeeze the last millimeter of protection from steel armor. It had all the look of a singular vision that had to bow to reality and manufacturing. Story of any designer's life, really.
 
"Before we do anything, can I take a look inside? It's not often I have a chance to see hardware this interesting."
 
The tech who'd first spoken to him peered skeptically at him over her glasses. "You sure? World-hopper like you hadda seen a hell of a lot better."
 
"Yes, I have, but I've also seen a hell of a lot worse in my travels. This planet's done far better than most in its situation." Suddenly he realized - other people here did not have the opportunity to go off-planet and experience other cultures. He'd known, but hadn't known. This stranger from outside could find himself swamped with questions about life in the Inner Sphere if he didn't forestall them.
 
"But where are my manners? I'm James Ferguson, and please, please call me Ferguson. I'm here to assist, as you may have heard from Brenda McMicheal, but I can only answer a few general inquiries before I go over to the aerodrome to introduce myself there. I'll need to be ready for a fight, so I hear." He quirked a smile.
 
Scattered chuckles and nods, some sympathetic grimaces. Perhaps it wasn't that bad.
 
Could he push his luck? "In fact, once we're done I'd like someone senior to come with me. Maintaining a cordial working relationship with both branches of the service is a net good."
 
That went down like an off-color joke. One younger tech, the one wearing an eyepatch, was about to say something but shut up.
The moment dragged on a bit too long; he clapped his hands together to dispel the awkward atmosphere. "Marvelous! Let's take a look!" Going over to a Hardiman next to the heavy lift, he (finally!) pulled himself up to the cab, suspension rocking slightly.
 
Fairly standard driver's position, automatic gearbox, adjustable seats, armored bulkhead between the cab & crew compartment, passenger seat. The two-way radio looked civilian and - he slid over to the passenger position - the machine-gun's targeting system had a drop-down periscope sight and, wired to the dash with a curly lead, an odd hand-held thumb-stick with trigger. While Ferguson could see they were going for (driver or passenger acting as gunner), nothing good would happen if the driver accidentally grabbed the controls instead of the radio's microphone.
 
Although... if this switch was right, the sight and the letterbox head-up display in front of the driver and passenger was wired for night vision. Flipping it, he could see the garage illuminated through the windscreen in grainy green, overhead fluorescents flaring like stars. Quite advanced, though he was surprised it would be considered a necessity for the whole fleet. None of the silhouette recognition, mag-res or infra-red he was secretly hoping for, though.
 
The air-conditioning unit was complex, no doubt stacked with filters and alkaline traps to combat the mildly toxic air.
 
The dash was sealed tight. No manufacturer's logos visible. Tch. He hadn't been allowed to crack open the garage's Atacama to check either.
 
Swinging around on grab handles that let passing soldiers hitch a ride, he clambered around to the side without touching the ground (they were electrically insulated, for some reason). His suit picked up the dust, but he ignored it. At the back, the windowless troop compartment opened up to reveal rows of bench seats only just fit for twenty.
 
Like the worst minivan ever, there was just enough room in the aisles for the door guard he'd seen to file past, though not while stood up. If anyone leaned back, they would be coddled by the finest canvas straps. The ceiling was bare, with the frame, air-con piping and underside of the armour plate clearly visible. Helmets had to be standard issue, otherwise head injuries would be endemic... no, someone had strategically duct-taped foam at the point where someone's forehead would hit. A single incandescent bulb lit it in dismal orange. Clearly, the vehicle had been savaged by accountants.
 
He could almost hear the tooth-grinding of the designer, and feel the disdain towards the troops.
 
Ferguson realized he was taking notes for his own designs. An APC would be an easier sell to the commander, and avoid export restrictions...
 
One of the techs poked their head in. "What do ye think, Mr. Ferguson?"
 
"While it's excellent work, I think there's room for improvement. Not from you fine fellows, but from Mackenzie." Scattered smiles. Good, he was ahead in the game. "How do I examine the engine?"
 
The powerplant was under the floor, and according to the techs it was necessary to unbolt the seats to access. A shame. One of the others said it was a ruggedized V8 from a short-haul lorry and promised to show it once they got back.
 
Moving on to the Sulphurmander, he found much the same combination of night-sight plus HUD, with the machine-gun trigger more sensibly placed on the yoke. He picked out little flourishes and ergonomic finishing they had been denied in the APC: though Spartan, the seat held neck and hips firmly; the action of the yoke and throttle pedals was smooth and precise; speedometer rated to 200 km/h; passenger seat situated behind the driver. This person loved speed, knew speed. Maybe had an over-engined ground car. If he had a hover or aircar license this would be a lot of fun to drive.
 
Forward and side visibility was good, vision in rear sadly obstructed by the thrust nacelles, compensated by a neat fibre-optic rear-view periscope. While not encapsulated in a powerpack, the techs said that changing the engine was the work of two to three hours. With normal armour, it'd be an excellent scout.
 
The Atacama he opted to skip for now, partly as there was one at the garage, partly because one of the techs might show how to open the sealed electronics without asking. Time was a-wasting, and, no disresepect to the ground forces, the aerospace forces were key. Ferguson hoped Devolo was telling the other techs of his usefulness as well as the arrogance. ...because he might have to be a high-handed arsehole soon.
 
He felt it was justified, as he was going up against other arseholes. Some times you had to be the bigger... stick.
 
He brushed dust off the suit. Tharkad-made, Teflon coated, worth every kroner.
 
The talk had moved on to how Devolo came to be a technician like them. By their tone, few would consider it. Ferguson was curious, but they had a lot of work to do.
 
"Boss, can we move on? I think have some ideas regarding that matter."
 
"All right, Ferguson, let's hear it."
 
*whisper*
 
"But..."
 
*whisperwhisper*
 
"That. That's your plan."
 
"Tell me you don't want to see it yourself."
 
Devolo sighed gustily. "No..." He took a deep breath. "Would any of you like to come along to see the flyboys and their techs eating outa Ferguson's hand?"
 
After some smirks, snickers and chuckles, a bunch of hands shot up.
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*; Chapter Notes from the Author : While I'll be toning down the phonetic accents as we go on, Ferguson's arrogance is a flaw of a certain type of personality, one shared with someone I know: legitimately smart and knowledgeable, same desire to better things, aggravating as hell. When I thought of "laudable ComStar operative" I thought of the organisation's arrogance, and... snap! Devolo is a composite of people I know or have met, one of whom has limited capacity for bullshit.For visual reference, the Atacama looks like the Chinese WZ-132, the Hardiman a stretched, widened Swedish KP-bil, and the Sulphurmander... has no real-world equivalent, but takes cues from the Beagle with the KP-bil's blockiness. The 4x4 is basically a 4-seater Springer Tomcar, shrunken a bit. 
*; Wiki Note: The images used for the vehicles were on purpose not made like the original, but Ai generated due to concerns about the copyright issues.
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