NIH Chpt 5

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==Not Invented HereChapter 5 - Negotiations==
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People are persuaded more by what they could lose than by what they stand to gain. Bulling through with money or bargains works for a while, but only if the customer does not have ethos to refuse. To make the sale, vary your strategy according to the terrain and the forces, then "Strike where they are weak"."Business Is A Greek Battlefield: How To Command Your Company Like The Ancients", Tharkad Central Publishing c. 2953
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===Part 1===
Outskirts of Turnville, Wynn's Roost - Outworlds Wastes
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It had been a month since he landed.
 
What was odd was how quickly he'd adapted. Get up, pull the shades up or switch on his sunlight lamp, greet the landlady whose name he should have learned by now, look through papers for apartments, eat breakfast (the stewed oats were a bit odd, but it was starting to grow on him). Hail a taxi, pay with Winners (the rate was indeed ruinous, but he didn't mind using what he'd been paid to live) and set to work teaching Diego at Devolo's farm slash workshop while his grandfather and their boss worked on the next iteration of the CASE. He found he quite enjoyed teaching someone eager to learn, with an extra tingle of amusement at having succeeded where others had failed.
 
Of course, there were still hiccups in their professional relationship.
 
Ferguson had only just stepped out of the cab before being confronted by a teenager.
 
"Why won't you?"
 
"Why won't I what, Diego?"
 
"Ye said," here his nasal, growling Gaelic/Spanish mutant accent morphed into a bad approximation of his mentor's crisp accent, "I will teach you everything I know." He crossed his arms. "So far all we've been doin' is blowing shite up!"
 
"I thought you liked that."
 
"Well... ah do, but when ye asked me to do the mathematics o' what they'd do before that, it was a bit much!"
 
"And I'm proud of you for taking to it so readily."
 
"You gave me homework, and grandpa went along with it! It took two fucking weeks! Why the fuck did they have t' use a whole different alphabet?"
 
"Ah, my pupil is learning so many new concepts and big words," said Ferguson, bleeding in some of the old Dehli broadness he'd had trained out of him. "I am getting tearful."
 
"Fuck off," said Diego, but it was without heat.
 
Playtime over, he addressed Diego with a bit of a snap. "There is a reason to everything I do. I am drilling you in the foundation for what I hope is a long and fruitful career. A mechtech needs different skills from one who hopes to become a weapons designer, who in turn needs even more disparate skills from a factory engineer. And after you learn all that, you still have to be a manager."
 
"Yeah, so?"
 
Ferguson smiled. "Take a guess at the common skills they all need, Diego."
 
"...aw, shit. Mathematics?"
 
"Yes. Any more?"
 
"Welding? But ah know how to-"
 
"Hah, no, and steel is not enough. Magnesium alloys, beryllium alloys and some of the more esoteric high-entropic alloys will trip you up. Edge cases galore. Even stainless steel needs care. Which leads me into the next thing."
 
"Ye're goin' to say metals, aren't ye?"
 
"Every day you prove your worth, but yes. Metallurgy. To learn this we are going on a field trip."
 
They went into the workshop, where Devolo was tacking on welds as a prelude to making a steel box. Ferguson winced at the actinic glare of the arc welder, holding up a hand to block it. As if there wasn't enough UV when the sun was up already.
 
"Boss!" he shouted over the hum of the transformer's fans. "We are going over to the refinery!"
 
Devolo only set down the arc welder once the last plate had been tacked on. Ferguson was glad to let him have the pause. Things had been tense. Not bad, but there was clearly some reckoning coming between him and the old man, where they would fight and scrap and eventually figure out who was top dog in charge of the company and Diego. Blech. If it meant he had to wait upon him, to reinforce the hierarchy without a confrontation, so be it.
 
"Hang on, I'll drive ye there. Need to see Brenda about my special order anyway."
 
Couldn't leave the boss out of it either.
 
They piled into the truck. He had to see about upgrading it into something better, which he could do in his sleep if he had the parts. Were there the parts? His boss had had a steady stream of people coming into the workshop, mostly to repair agricultural equipment, but people who had once dealt in the other kinds of 'agricultural equipment' seemed to owe him an awful lot, and his veteran pals came by occasionally too. (He very carefully did not ask whether Devolo was allowed to buy military-grade explosives direct from the quartermaster.) The man seemed to have a vast network of familial and friendly contacts around Turnerville, and almost as many off it.
 
As they jolted down the track towards the main road, he thought back to his mission. He still continued on his side-project of assessing the technology levels, but the people as a whole were understandably suspicious of that kind of thing. He had an excuse for browsing the material supplier's catalogs, but he had to wait for an opportunity. Start sniffing around, expose yourself as a new local interested in 'agricultural equipment'... well, they'd already had a raid a century back where some pirates planted agents. That didn't go well for either party. Roosters had long memories, and their justifiable paranoia was only reinforced by the more recent raids.
 
This was also why he'd decided upon a refinery visit: education for Diego, fact-finding for his assessment, which he still needed to submit. The state of the HPG facility on Wynn's Roost, his only point of contact with his real employers, was still unknown. Devolo wasn't suspicious that he hadn't reported back the state of the CASE project to Lycomb-Davion, since to him, HPG messages were expensive and only used for important business. Indeed, he'd told Ferguson that he wanted him to give it his best shot before reporting back, and requested he keep it quiet down to whatever deadline he had, since the future of the planet was at stake. Slightly dramatic, but he got the picture. Because he was accidentally right.
 
Ostensibly, keeping things low-key was all part of the trade. An agent could act like a holovid super-spy, crashing into a secure base, shooting their way past the guards, slicing through the uncrackable encryption as they piloted a BattleMech with their cyberarm. That happened, it was a big galaxy, but the true strength of low-level people like him was acting like the gravel under your feet: all-pervasive, invisible, and above all, boring. Ferguson was well aware that unless and until he was contacted again, he was no better than all the other thousands of pebbles. He'd told everyone he'd made his peace with that.
 
His last act had been to corrupt a researcher's data chip, for which he had been fired. He'd gone through the whole painful process, as per instructions: said goodbye to people he'd grown to like, waited for his severance pay, looked for new jobs. Then, one day, a circular was dropped in his door that, in very poor taste, invited him to a Bible study group at a certain time and place to "discover the keys that will unlock the secrets of prophecy".
 
His debriefer had been someone he'd actually known, and had the grace (or maybe the gall) to act contrite as he handed over the briefing packet containing Ferguson's current identity and the job posting. Thanks to compartmentalization he didn't know why. He didn't even know his designation. Someone upstairs must not have liked him that much.
 
It had to be that final-year essay. Had to be.
 
But perhaps this was the nice way to dispose of him. The thought that he was here because someone higher-up liked him had also occurred. If this was a test of don't-make-us-send-Rho-to-murder-you loyalty by said person, maybe he should step up his efforts.
 
It was at that moment, swaying and jolting along the road, the Plan came.
 
Ferguson turned it over in his head, examining what had no doubt been brewing in the back of his subconscious since he witnessed the demonstration. He would no longer be a pebble unless he was very careful... Could it be pulled off? Well, if that was there, or could be found in some defunct company's archives... he had stopped off at Sevon and Alpheratz on the way... It would give him even more reasons to assess the state of the planet... It would be an amazing challenge... and they couldn't get mad, not even if they came this far out. They might kill him, regardless of that.
To his shock, he realized he didn't want anything bad to happen to this planet. If he did have to leave suddenly, then he'd prefer to leave them in a better place than where they were.
Yes. This would bear thinking about.
In the meantime, he had a refinery to assess.
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===Part 2===
Refinery, Outskirts of Turnerville - Wynn's Roost, Outworlds Wastes
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A few hours later, they'd wound their way through the outskirts of Turnerville, into an expansive steelyard with lorries roaring in and out, and parked beside a rather well-appointed office that overlooked the refinery floor. The triple-glazed windows blocked most of the din, but the view was like the pits of a very industrious hell as sparks flew and iron flowed.
 
"Was wondering when you were going to be coming, Francis."
 
Brenda McMicheal had turned out to be a rather hearty woman. Short at 164 cm, just showing grey in her black hair, a few creases and crinkles in her wide, brown smiling face. Still impressively-built, years after she retired from the militia, having reached the rank of First Lieutenant before a Wasp had crushed her left lower leg. Ferguson supposed it was only natural that her prosthetic was an intricate metal sculpture in titanium. Looking closer, he couldn't even see the seams.
 
"It's a beaut, isn't it?"
 
Caught in the act, Ferguson went for unabashed. "It is indeed. How was it made, sintering?"
 
"Good eye. That, and water-cutting. Wus an anniversary gift from my wife and husband."
 
Ferguson blinked, but rallied. He shouldn't be that shocked, really; the founder of the planet had had a quad marriage - it made sense that the custom would continue.
 
"I'm sorry, allow me to introduce myself. James Ferguson, technician and engineer, and Mr. Devolo's newest hire."
 
She shook his proffered hand firmly, without the crushing pressure some men felt compelled to add. Good. He did so appreciate a lack of machismo.
 
"Pleasure." But Ferguson didn't miss the way her brown eyes took his measure - like he was on parade and she was looking for an excuse to throw a miscreant in the brig. It all but asked, 'Why is someone like this here?'
 
Her eyes flicked over to where Devolo and Diego were standing, and seemed to come to a decision. Just as quickly, the cautious regard was covered up with a friendly smile. "Seems yu've come a long way. Where did yu say you were from?"
 
Evasiveness would not work with this woman. "New Avalon. I was sent by Lycomb-Davion Introtech to get in on the ground floor with Innovations Inc."
 
She whistled. "Yu hooked a helluva rare fish, Francis."
 
Ferguson turned to Devolo and asked, "Boss, does she know?"
 
"His 'great work'? Yeah, I know. Diego's mother tells me everything he does, an' I still have friends in the militia. Newer friends than youes, at that. Wusn't hard."
 
Devolo chuckled briefly. "Ah didn't try hard. Never could keep anythin' from the "Bren Gun", could ah?"
 
Her eyes narrowed like a gunslinger's, and the lighting in the office suddenly shadowed her laughter lines. "Careful, Mister Devolo. Right leg's plenty good enough t' give yu a swift kick up the backside." The smirk spoiled the effect, though, and they both laughed.
 
"Ahh, it's good te see ye Brenda. How long's it been? A year? Two?"
 
"About that much. Yu up for a drink an' chat?"
 
"We'll hae te catch up later. Ferguson here's bin helpin' wee Diego. Ah wuldn't ha credited it, but he's doin' wonders."
 
This was news to Ferguson. What about all the jockeying for position as he all but stole his boss's apprentice out from under him?
 
"That said, we've got te have a chat about 'chain o' command' sooner rather than later..."
 
...Dammit. His Plan was already in jeopardy, and he hadn't said a thing.
 
"...but this is still his show. Ferguson, you're up."
 
"Right. I've been training Diego up in skills he's going to need if he's to help Devolo and me complete the project. He's done very well this past month, but I need to teach him all about metallurgy. Then I thought, 'It's time to introduce him to the first superpower' - delegation!"
 
The soldiers-turned-managers in the room (and Ferguson) chuckled briefly, but Diego screwed his nose up in confusion. "What? How's that a superpower?"
 
Brenda took up the thread. "Imagine yu were the manager o' a car factory. An' yu could do everythin' yourself. Design the body, figure out the alloys, forge a part, finish, weld it, make an engine from scratch if yu had to - thu whole shebang. Wuld you?"
 
"Ah guess?" He thought again. "...no?"
 
"Why?"
 
"'Cuz ah'd get tired." He thought a bit. "So ah'd get someone te help me!"
 
Ferguson cut in. "Ah, but they're not you. They can't do everything."
 
"Umm, ah get them t' help where they can, an' check their work."
 
Almost there, thought Ferguson. "So what you do is find that expert person who is as good as you or better at one or a few things, like inventing, designing, forging, running an assembly line, and get them to do that. Hire one for each part of your car factory, and all of a sudden you're doing a hell of a lot more a lot faster, and you can focus your time on things that matter."
 
"So... why did ye say ah needed all that stuff you tol' me earlier? Ah culd jus' hire a design'r an' a forger an' all that."
 
"Boss, you want to take this one?"
 
"Thanks fer the courtesy." He fixed Diego with a cool glare. "Because I'll skelp yer arse if ye ever become ah friggin' useless, know-nothing manager who sits in his friggin' office all day while people slave away beneath ye!"
 
The teen flinched. "Alright, grandpa, sheesh!"
 
That... was not what Ferguson was expecting, but it put the point across well enough. "I believe what he's saying is the very worst of managers act like you just described, Diego. A company that is headed by someone like that is, at best, mediocre. It excels only by being less awful than its competitors. If there are a lot of competitors, then that's fine. When there are few to none, you get Quikcell... or Mackenzie. If you want to do better than them..."
 
"All right, ah get it, ye smacked it o'er me head hard enough." He looked at his grandfather. "What d' ah do then?" Good, he was addressing the true master; maybe that would reassure his boss.
 
"Well, it's simple. Ye just hae te know what the fu- flip yer talkin' about, or what yer people are talkin' about when they come to ye, an' ye get your hands dirty an' show them you're as good as them to earn their respect. Then they c'n tell you what's goin' on in the company, there's a whole back an' forth and the whole thing jest works. Kinda like Brenda here."
 
"Ahh, yu auld flatterer."
 
"Nah, serious. She wus young enough ta be a wee sister, an' she went on te show us all how it was fu- friggin' done. Bes' platoon commander ah ever had. Then she went and did her degree, an' here she is."
 
Diego did seem to be listening, but Ferguson caught a mutter of, 'here we fuckin' go'. Definitely time to advance the lesson.
 
He clapped his hands together - not loud, just audibly - and rubbed them in anticipation. "So! I thought I'd delegate Diego's instruction in management and metallurgy, maybe come here once a week, and in return I assist in some knowledge exchange."
 
"How much yu willing to pay me an' mine for the trouble, then?" asked Brenda. "We're in the middle of a special order at the minute, and while ah don't mind doin' friends an' family a fav'r, you don't count."
 
Interesting. Could be a new model at the car plant, new construction, or something else. "If it's acceptable... Standard day's wage for whoever takes up the task? Paid out of my own pocket, even."
 
"Heh, yu couldn' afford me."
 
"Well, I was not joking about the knowledge exchange. How about corrosion resistant steel?"
 
"Simple, add molybdenum or chromium or both. Yu think we won't have the knowhow to deal with that?"
 
"High-entropic alloys."
 
"Far too expensive an' fiddly, but doable."
 
Impressive. "Heat-treatment to turn a frame piece into ultra-high-strength steel?"
 
"We c'n do that already." She smirked. "You're losin' the sale, Mr. Ferguson."
 
His hand was thinning, but he still had safe cards to play. It was already a very good result, though. Time to lay out the straight flush. "Everything I have on aerospace-grade titanium, nickel, and boron superalloys, and I'll lend my expertise in my spare time to the militia techs for a month."
 
"Two months."
 
"...Sold." He stuck out his hand, and they shook on it.
 
"Oy. Did ye just steal my tech?" asked Devolo.
 
"Ah think he went willingly," said Diego. "He was always pokin' about th' tank when it wus in th' shop. Workin' on actual hardware? Gonna be happy as a pig in shite."
 
"Don't worry, Boss, I still love you like a brother."
 
Devolo only sighed.
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===Part 3===
Refinery, Outskirts of Turnerville - Wynn's Roost, Outworlds Wastes
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Brenda had taken Diego down to the testing labs, leaving Ferguson and Devolo to have their Talk in the office.
 
Devolo was unhappy, and taking his wayward employee to task for overstepping his boundaries.
 
Ferguson was defending himself, trying to pitch the advantage of having pushed off his boss's apprentice to someone else entirely.
 
No-one was giving ground.
 
Eventually the "if you'll just let me finish" and "you work fer me" wound down into an uneasy silence, lest it start up all over again. They still hadn't sorted out the question of who was, ultimately, in charge of Diego. Ferguson hoped they never would. He hated arguments.
 
"Boss."
 
"I think ye said enough!"
 
"No, no, it's not about that. Well, it is, a little. It's connected, at least." He took a deep breath, and let it out. "You're going to hate me."
 
"Get te th' point."
 
"I have most of the elements of a plan that's going to absolutely smash Mackenzie in their compliant, cost-plus contract face, rebuild the militia into a modern force, and do everything Innovations Inc. wanted to do besides."
 
Devolo's face hardened. "An' this is where ye tell me how low ah hav to grovel to ye, an' how much shite ah have to eat. No."
 
"Boss, the amount of excrement you will have to eat is minimal, I guarantee. Your pride will take a hit, though. Or it might be enhanced. Fifty/fifty."
 
He took another breath. "Yes, we make CASE, and we fit it to the tanks, restart trade, it all goes as planned. But any disruption to the supply line and this planet is straight back in the same situation. The problem all lies with the tanks, right? So why don't we make better tanks?"
 
Devolo looked at him like he had grown another head. "Ye don't think we haven't tried? Anyway, ahm no' a weapons designer. Ah drove th' tanks an' was handy wi' a welder but that was it."
 
"But I am a weapons designer. And after we've trained him, Diego could be, too."
 
"I heard another "I" in there, ye fuckin' egomaniac. He's MY apprentice!"
 
Blake's Blood, he was losing him. Time to use the second superpower: persuasion.
 
"Boss, if my plan comes through, we'll be making modern armour plate and modern weapons, and creating fighting vehicles that will be the envy of Alpheratz itself on this very planet. The pirates won't dare to attack Wynn's Roost because they'll be reduced to a pair of smoking BattleMech legs! Most important of all, you won't be losing good men and women to stupid, wasteful tinfoil deathtraps."
 
He looked his employer in the eye. "Ultimately, I don't matter. Once I help complete your CASE, I'm gone. But now I've seen this planet, now I've worked with Diego and met Brenda, I see a lot of potential. I'm prepared to do everything I can to supply the tools they need to excel. Give me a chance to help."
 
"Big words. So what is this grand, secret master plan?"
 
"Well, the first step... is looking through the phone book. Do you know anyone who makes hydrogen fuel-cells?"
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