NIH Chpt 1

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==Not Invented HereChapter 1 - Fresh Off The Boat==
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"Previously, the leadership of Wynn's Roost was distinguished only by its blandness; the charismatic leaders that had led it and several systems around it to break away from the Outworlds Alliance to form the short-lived Trader's Domain were long-dead, the circumstances that had prompted it long-forgotten. The former capital of a multi-star-system state seemed destined to join its neighbours in the slide into irrelevance.Except it had not. Not yet. The writing was on the wall, sure, but Roost's abundant natural resources, fair standard of living and remaining heavy industry meant they were self-sufficient enough to survive, if not thrive, on exports of heavy metals. It also meant that they were frequently targeted by pirates and mercenaries raiding for said metals, enough that it had a standing militia, a rarity this deep in the Periphery.It was upon the back of the near-destruction of Turner's Irregulars in one particularly brutal raid that President Giovanni rose to power, narrowly beating her opponent on a platform of "avoiding a second Santiago", praising the militia forces who had lost their lives defending the spaceport from a mixed force of Wasps, Scorpion tanks and infantry that had landed from a single Leopard Dropship, pointing out that this was only the latest incident in a cavalcade of killing. Privately, she admitted to embarrassment that such a small, ragtag force could threaten an entire planet.No surprise, then, that one of her first acts as president was to sign an executive order opening up a tender to modernise its army, especially the primitive tanks that had formed the backbone of the ground forces."From "Cometh The Hour, Cometh The Man: An Oral History of Lightspeed Ltd." by Dario Vance
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===Part 1===
Space Port, Wynn's Roost - Outworlds Wastes
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It was the smell that hit him first. In the course of this journey he'd landed on several different planets and each time he'd taken a deep breath when the Dropship cracked its seals. A planet could tell you a lot through the nose.
 
Rotten eggs. Rotten eggs that seemed to fill the world and try to jump straight up his nostrils and burn out his lungs. He collapsed on the ramp, coughing and hacking up the air that had betrayed him so. It was one thing to read, "Geological and biological action fills the atmosphere and oceans with sulfur compounds in parts-per-million levels, primarily sulfur dioxide and hydrogen sulfide" but a whole other experience in person.
 
His vision gradually cleared, and he stopped wheezing as one of the crewmembers handed him a filter mask. The smell was still terrible, but it had lessened as the dust kicked up by the fusion exhaust settled.
 
So this was Wynn's Roost? Honestly, it looked like any other well-used spaceport in the Inner Sphere: a flat plane of worn ferrocrete with hydrogen tanks at the edge. He wasn't quite sure where he was; the entry in the trader's Dropship he'd paid far too many C-bills to hitch a ride on had last been updated somewhere in the last century, and still said the planet had several spaceports. The customs terminal looked pleasingly rustic, made of some sort of layered tile that formed an arching dome.
A new scent assaulted his nose, this time of burning hydrocarbons. A large diesel tanker truck was pulling up, and the driver parked up as the captain came out to haggle over prices. Wasn't a bad sort, despite not catching her name. Very good at poker.
 
Time to go in, especially as the diesel smoke was drifting this way. Ugh.
The customs building door opened inwards and took a bit of effort to push in. The rush of air that greeted him indicated the interior was under positive pressure. Ingenious and very simple. He began to feel more hopeful about his choices. Months of living on a Dropship had left him hypersensitive to fans and airflow, and there was a slight breeze inside that told him there was some sort of air filtration.
 
He approached the desk, unhooking the mask. The man there was a little out of shape, freckles standing out on his face, with a receding widow's peak of brown hair, but pleasingly businesslike as he took his papers and Federated Suns citizenship card without more than a glance. "Name?" The man's accent was as clipped as his no-doubt rural brogue allowed.
 
"James Ferguson."
"Reason for visit?"
 
"Work. Possibly long-term. I have additional references and medical documentation if needed."
 
The receptionist smiled. "That's great ta hear! You'll have to refer to Turnerville City Hall for a work visa, but," the man stamped a form, "Welcome t' Wynn's Roost, Mr. Ferguson."
 
Formalities observed, he took his paperwork back and slid it into his briefcase. The man of the company he was here for was not due to turn up till tomorrow 'morning'. The planet had a stupidly long seventy-seven-hour day, and the natives had long since split it into three Terran days (the other two days were given two extra hours, the full-dark day just one, and was considered a sort-of holiday). With his shiptime-adjusted jetlag currently insisting it was evening despite the full sunshine, he just wanted to find a hotel to crawl inside and sleep. First he needed to find a taxi, and this far out in the Periphery, he was half-expecting a horse and cart.
 
He didn't like horses, especially nags that hared off with him holding on for dear life, owner-driver cackling all the while.
 
He appreciated the new-ish public phone with a thick phonebook. In fact the whole waiting room seemed well-maintained, with some form of plastic-covered padding on the seats, not worn leather, and some form of LCD screen on the wall transmitting a television broadcast (muted) which spoke of a higher-than-normal techbase. The horse and cart looked less likely by the second.
 
Thumbing through, the list of taxi firms was about average for a large town or small city. Faced with picking one at random, he decided to trust the receptionist.
 
"Taxis? Mmm, Castellan Cabs is just round the corner and cheap. Shouldn't be more than 14-15 C-bills to take you to Town Hall. If you're looking for a hotel, the Dalriada is the one the locals use. Most of the spacers use the Marrion, but that's a tourist trap if ye ask me."
 
Ferguson thought that was just short of robbery, especially with the exchange rate in planetary scrip. Instead, he smiled back. Small talk and ingratiating was all part of the trade. "That's an odd name."
 
"Ah, it's th' best damn hotel in t' city." Ferguson kept the doubt off his face. Apparently professionalism was only skin-deep here, as the man's (he glanced down at the nametag - Douglas) accent began to drop vowels as useless decoration, and enunciation migrated to one side of the mouth. "It w's some kind of ancient kingdom or somethin'. Been run by my second cousin's family for five generations. Came fr'm Terra themselves."
The chatter continued; Ferguson found himself wishing he'd been assigned a different job as he nodded and smiled, but he was able to funnel him into questions about the general government and key industry. There was also several screeds against pirates "'n merc'naries, but they're the same damn thing". The fact that Jumpships were needed to carry them meant that there was always a bit of nervousness when a dropship was spotted insystem.
 
Seeing daylight ahead in the torrent, the traveller asked, "Don't you have a militia?"
 
"'Course we do! Friggin' good one too, don't have any of those pacifist Omniss bastards around t' c'mplain. They have gumption, but you try standing up t' a damn BattleMech wi' somethin' wan or two steps removed fr'm a digger."
 
"Shocking," said Ferguson. "Can't they buy modern hardware from outsystem?"
 
The receptionist shrugged. "'ve seen the exchange rates f'r Winners - sorry, A-bills, I suppose you offworlder types wuld call 'em. It actually goes up as you exchange more. Friggin' extort'n, pure and simple. It's like ComStar want t' keep us down in the dirt." He nodded out towards the ferrocrete. "We manage t' import some stuff by tradin' refined metals t' the FedRats, sorry, the Federated Suns, but it's no way t' run a planet. M' da says when we were running th' Trader's Domain we was great, but when th' fusion factory..." He shook himself. "Sorry, been spoottering on. Where did y' say y' were from?"
 
"Oh, I've been all over the place. Barely remember my home planet, let alone town."
 
For a businessman like Ferguson, not committing to an ethnicity was simply good practice. Black-brown hair, coffee-brown skin and near-black eyes had meant less than the actual place you were born for centuries, but mention you were Cappellan or Kuritan (or worse, look it) and, despite the highly-independent Outworlds Alliance being hundreds of lightyears from their border to Lyran Commonwealth or Federated Suns space, people's attitudes might shift in an instant. Tribalism near the turn of the third Millennium was not only still alive, but flourishing, and spanned multiple star-systems. Even claiming you were from one of the more moral Houses could result in a cooled reception from *someone* whose sister's fiance's father was killed by a militia-turned-mercenary hailing from one or the other, or thought you were there to buy the city out from under them. He preferred not to take that risk till he was sure.
 
Ferguson's new friend eyed him a little dubiously. "If y' say so." Mercifully, he let the matter drop.
 
There was a rumble of an engine to the side of the building, where a car park had been set to accommodate taxis outside.
 
The man turned at the sound, saw the outline through the thick, triple-glazed door, and turned back and smiled. "There's y'r taxi, Mr. Ferguson. Y' have y'rself a good day, y'hear?"
 
He smiled back. "I think I will."
“Yes, I am.”
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===Part 2===
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Ferguson's first impression of the taxi was, "Huh. It's normal." Four wheels, boxy wedge body, with the stylist's touch of some masculine flared arches to disguise the fact it was a minivan. It could have come out of any dealership of a hundred planets.
 
He lugged his suitcase into the back of the car on a free seat and got in. The spaceport was up high, so he had a fair view of the other taxi he could see coming up round the corner through the tinted window. This one was a sleek saloon. He mentally ticked 'commercial industry, domestic market with two, maybe more manufacturers, late 20th/early 21st Terran, natural/synthetic rubber' on an internal list and allowed himself to feel a trickle of hope.
"Whar to, sir?"
 
The driver's accent wasn't as thick, but it was still mushy and allergic to grammar, adding a bit of a drawl to the staccato Spanish root. Ferguson didn't let the wince show, instead smiling professionally and saying, "Turnerville Town Hall, please. And take the scenic route."
 
"Will do, sir."
 
Once past the caldera wall (because of course, most mountains of Wynn's Roost were extinct volcanoes) the trip down the mountain showed off a fairly pretty planet, but one locked in a perpetual slight haze of smog. Grasslands with lots of dips and dells, and forests off in the distance, but less green and a shade more red, and some near-black vegetation swarming over one field. Ferguson supposed it was part of the Star League's terraforming efforts to adapt Terran plants for the higher UV levels.
 
What was not remotely Terran was the moon, San Diego (he could hear his old lecturer ranting over terminology already), which was much bigger *and* closer than old Luna. Faint and waning for now, but still visible as a lazy half-closed eye in the blue sky, craters clearly visible. Moonrises would be spectacular, and last for almost a full 'night'. A full moon would be bigger than the width of his outstretched fist, and probably brighten the planet to dusk.
 
It wasn't far to Turnerville and it soon came into view. He had another pleasant surprise when he beheld a somewhat modern metropolis, with at least some skyscrapers and yet more of those vaulted tile buildings, but far bigger and more extensive. There were even what looked like arcologies, but they were barely two or three stories high and looked more like greenhouses or parks.
 
He also spotted the first signs of raids: charred areas where a dropship had set down. With a spheroid's fusion drive, clearing a LZ and path was as simple as circling a bit before landing. Some of the now overgrown burnscars were kilometers long. Now Ferguson looked closer at the city, he could see new construction and old, wrecked buildings around the other side of the valley the city was built into, most likely an industrial park. Was he dropping into a warzone?
 
On the one hand, he had a selfish need to keep his innards unsplattered by a 'Mech foot. On the other hand, this was exactly the kind of environment the company he was going to meet could thrive in.
 
They were moving into the suburbs now. Wait, now he saw it, this was just another, larger extinct caldera. Great if it needed to be defended from the ground, but a big target saying, "Raid me, I'm full of refined germanium" from orbit.
 
Lots of pathways were covered over and he wondered if they used the same positive pressure trick to keep out the sulphides. Now less than 5 miles from the city centre, the taxi ran into something he wasn't expecting - traffic. At least the road they were crawling through was situated by a startlingly blue river, and the filters in the AC were doing an acceptable job of holding back the pollution.
 
"Say, what's the river next to us?" asked Ferguson.
 
"Ah, that's the Oracia," said the driver. "Mister Turner named it after his second wife an' never quite brought himself to change it. Heard it said thut he thought it appropriate when they divorced - 's pretty, but toxic. Ehehehe."
 
"I take it it leaches copper from the rocks and the colour's some kind of sulphate?"
 
"Ooh, hey, tha's right. I knew ye wus smart th' minute I laid eyes on ye, fancy suit and ev'rythin'." The driver's eyes met his in the rear-view mirror. "You wouldn't be some kind of tech or engineer comin' to work here?"
 
Ferguson smiled professionally. "You're quick yourself. Yes, I'm coming here to take advantage. Beginning to warm to the place too."
 
"Great!" The driver flicked his gaze back to check the road, then back to his passenger's. "Only, I got a niece workin' over at Mackenzie. Stuck in secretarial, but smart, I tell ya. Taught her ev'rythin' I know about engines and electronics." The man's eyes looked hopeful in his light-brown face, then triumphant at Ferguson's doubt. "Eeh, tripped ye up there? Didn' always drive a cab! Took a master's degree in Optical Electronics at Turner U and worked at Tech-track for well over 12 years. Made redundant when they closed down, an' I've bin drivin' ever since." He rubbed his bald head selfconsciously. "Truth be tol' I wouldn' go back, too ol' t' change, but Lionora," he turned pleading, "she don't deserve or need to be a damn secretary at a place thut got so many damn men and women killed."
 
Ferguson knew not to let bait go untouched, especially if someone was insisting upon inserting himself into his web of contacts. "Is Mackenzie a weapons manufacturer?"
 
"Just about the only one we've got," groused the driver. Ferguson couldn't keep calling him that in his head, but he couldn't see the namebadge. "Thuy do the best they can, but we c'n't keep throwin' our young'ns inta the line of fire in bluddy knock-offs that barely scratch the paint of a 'Mech." He began to sniffle. "Muh son... lost a leg. If you could see yur way to doin' sumthin'-"
 
The businessman held up a hand, forestalling anything definite. "Say no more. I get the picture. I'll see what I can do."
 
"Much obliged, sir." He wiped his eyes, then began to steer with his forearm, writing a name and number on a sticky pad, which he tore off and handed back to his passenger. "When yuh feel the need, call Emelio Cardiel. I'll send Lionora o'er ta you soon as."
 
"I'm Ferguson. James Ferguson. Just use my surname, there's far too many Jameses."
 
"Ehehehe, I hear ye."
 
They sat in silence till they reached the town hall that was covered in colourful mosaics. He tried to tip Cardiel, but he waved it off. "Yur a spot of hope for once." He smiled crookedly, well-kept teeth peeking out. "Remember us little folk when yur up on the hill in yur big penthouse, will ye?"
 
There was a teasing edge to the man's parting words; Ferguson was left feeling like he'd failed a minor step in the dance as the minivan drove off, but he couldn't figure out what and that bugged him. He turned to the door in the facade at the end of the covered taxi rank. "Well, let's see how this goes."
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===Part 3===
City of Turnerville - City Hall 
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"Listen, I do not want a house, Ms. Mayor. For one, I am not employed yet."
He really did not expect this. It was supposed to be a simple bit of administration - go in, work your way through the layers of bureaucracy, get piece of paper - but to have the mayor of Turnerville herself come out to greet him when the exceedingly friendly receptionist made a call was... a bit much. As was the key to the city, a deed to a prime separate sealed mansion with its own 24-hour security force (though he doubted they would get to do anything on a planet this lightly-populated) and what could be a ticker-tape parade through the streets if he didn't stop the woman right the hell now. There was such a thing as too much of a charm offensive.
 
"Oh Mr. Ferguson, you don't know how valuable you are. Even if you aren't much of a technician, you are a positive lifeline to the outside world. Turnerville, no, Wynn's Roost itself takes care of its own." Her eyes narrowed. "Unless you aren't planning on staying for as long as you say, mmm?"
 
Ah, veiled threats. He knew where he was with those. He could see his work visa being 'delayed' for one reason or another. Since the planet had inherited the old Star League's bureaucracy, part of its stability, they could keep him tied up for weeks to months through entirely legitimate bullshit. He'd browsed a lot of case studies, and some of the shenanigans were fiendish.
 
"Mayor Herron..."
 
"Ana, please."
 
"...Ana, I assure you that once I have truly secured a place of work, I will come speak to you again." He smiled roguishly, one conspirator to another. "Friends help each other out - especially, if I don't miss my guess, one friend is up for re-election on a platform of growth."
 
She didn't titter, she snorted. "Well, aren't you blunt? And you're quite wrong, I only took office last year, but your point is taken." She reached behind her into the drawer of the desk she was leaning on. Ferguson, sitting down in a plush leather armchair, noted both the informal posture and the commanding height advantage and reminded himself not to take too much for granted when dealing with Periphery leaders.
 
The fact that it displayed her modest assets, falling locks of red hair and stocking-clad legs in a form-fitting skirtsuit as she stretched back was also part of the dance... he hoped.
 
"Take this down to Siobhan at the front desk. She'll set you up with a visa for a year, with the option of extension - and nothing but," she added. "I know when to back off, Mr. Ferguson. It's just... I was excited to meet a genuine Terran."
 
Ferguson *didn't* react. Internally, several strategies were shuffled out and new ones drawn hastily.
 
"I've been to Earth. I actually went to it as a little girl; I don't even know how a 'c'ntry bumpk'n' like me reached it - I think an Explorer Corps ship took pity on my family - but I do remember the way they'd rebuilt after the Amaris Coup. It was like a different world, a shining city rebuilt on the rubble of nuclear war... and then I had to go home again."
 
"I think that's why I went into politics, inject some life into the place." The mayor's accent, previously as crisp as the receptionist, let in some rural drawl. "I wanted some o' that. Didn't seem fair, y'know?" A little vulnerability, and no doubt calculated to tweak his heartstrings.
 
"Now I'm mayor, and you drop into my lap? Can't blame a girl for trying." She smiled, white, even teeth standing out in her freckled face, the slight crows-feet crinkling at the edge of her brown eyes.
 
She must have gotten far on the smile alone, thought Ferguson. He smiled back, professional and non-committal. "I'll be in touch then."
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===Part 4===
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Once out in the perpetual sun, he realised he a) had no idea what time it was, since Terran time sometimes had to be sliced, diced or tied into knots to fit all the planets humans had settled on b) he still hadn't found the hotel c) he was growing hungry, and he was anticipating just a little distress on the culinary front. He hoped they didn't lionise broccoli. He hated broccoli.
 
He lifted the mask that had been hanging around his neck all this time and fitted it back on. Down in the city there was less of the sulphur smell, but the traffic of what he supposed was the morning or lunchtime or even dinnertime rush was still crawling through the centre of Turnerville, and the exhaust mixing with the sulphur was making his eyes water.
Ferguson supposed he'd either get used to it or buy better masks.
 
The Marrion at least was quite visible and stood out as a 6-storey tower of glass and steel on the opposite side of the four-lane highway. Pedestrian subways connected each side at regular intervals; he remembered the covered walkways under the road in the old briefing now.
 
Once down in the well-lit tunnel, past the air curtain, the streets were fairly busy and he picked a direction that most of the locals seemed to be walking in.
 
...So that's where the signposts where. It sort of made sense to have them in the high traffic areas, but it was a serious faux-pas to not have them up above the ground.
 
Anyway, he soon arrived where all the business-y types were flocking to what seemed to be a restaurant district. He congratulated himself upon his forward-thinking and good luck.
 
Pushing up the ramp into the covered street, he made his way in to "Jo's Diner", one that had a decent amount of people, he unhooked his mask to take a sniff. Meat.. bacon!... onions... ahh, coffee... little pungent... something which seemed like soy... eggs, milk, livestock... cabbage... pastry or bread... so they had wheat - promising, very promising.
He was about to take a seat, but a waitress interrupted him with a, "Table for one?" then led him to a seat in the back. He supposed it was pretty obvious he was not from around here, since his cut of suit was a little more flamboyant and Lyran, what with the asymmetrical collar and fancy seamless magnetic clasp. The consideration shown was not unusual, but welcome. The table wobbled though, and he allowed himself a little scowl.
 
The waitress set down a basket of condiments, some he didn't recognise, and brought out a noteputer, readying its stylus. Very encouraging. "Hi, traveller. What'll yu be havin'?"
 
Roll the die. Maybe he'd be lucky twice. "Coffee, bacon, eggs and toast."
 
She tapped it in on the small LCD screen. "Anythin' else?"
 
"No, that'll be fine."
 
With one final tap and a beep, she went on to another table. Pay after eating, then.
 
He looked around casually. A fair mix of customers, and he noted that they seemed to be ordering more lunch-type or breakfast-like food, including some kind of white stewed grain or something that seemed to come with two or three little jars of toppings. That nailed down the approximate time, though he would wait and see. It had become something of a game by now for him to guess the local time.
 
Pretty soon his order was delivered by a different server. It looked normal, quite probably coming from an animal sometime this week. The dropship's breakfast rations were a while ago, and he gave it a tentative try, cutting across and getting a bit of everything on the fork, including the fried onions.
 
He couldn't help closing his eyes in pleasure at the taste of actual, real bacon, not the long-life soy stuff. There was a slight mustardy tang to the onions, but it was not unpleasant, and the egg yolk was soaking into the crisp brown wheat and... rye?... toast. Beautiful. He instantly went for another forkful.
 
Halfway through, he noticed someone splashing a dark sauce on their bacon. The bottle was pitch-black with a green label proclaiming "MacKendricks' Finest Bracci Sauce". Curious now, he opened up his own sauce bottle and tried a very small drop on the toast.
The smell of burned, no, dried broccoli hit almost at the same time as the taste, and he had to stop himself from gagging, even as it faded to a now-familiar mustardy savouriness that was not a million miles from soy sauce.*
 
Spit or swallow, the eternal question. He chose to wash it down with a swallow of the coffee, which he hadn't touched before now. Lots could be forgiven if the coffee was good.
 
It turned out that mild roasts were more of a thing around here, but it was inoffensive and faded to a toasty finish. Not bad.
 
Quickly he finished the rest, taking sips of the coffee. Fortunately, you couldn't mess up with salt and pepper. Real black pepper, too, though the little grinder was tiny.
 
He called for the cheque when another server came round. This was also another opportunity to gauge the tech of the planet. If the capital could...
 
Well, here was the test now, in the form of the server, probably the manager, approaching with a noteputer.
 
He presented his credit chit.
 
"Terribly sorry, sir, the network's down. Cash only for now. That'll be five Winners."
 
Tch. Well, this was also instructive. He pulled out a 5 C-bill note from his small wallet.
 
The man frowned, no doubt taking in the whole of the suitcase-carrying businessman for the first time. "Spacer, huh? Ah think ah c'n mak change." He tapped away with the stylus before reaching into his pocket gracelessly. "Tha's about... 1 C-bill, or 20 winners an' 2 pence change. Sorry, don' have any C-bills." He slapped the slightly warm money - ecch, but... huh, plastic bills and copper coins - into Ferguson's hand.
 
Before the server turned away, Ferguson stopped him. "Sorry to bother you, but could you tell me where the Dalriada is from here?"
 
"Eh, 's about three hun'red metres to th' left o' here, turn right down Paint Street tunnel, fourth...", he looked up, trying to recall, "Left. Ah think it's left. Should take you straight out."
 
"And the time?"
 
"Jus' about after one, local time."
 
Repeating it under his breath till he had it down, he thanked the man and left.
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==Author's Chapter Notes==
;Word from the Author: It turns out IRL that if you are presented with broccoli microwaved to the extent that it begins to dry out, down underneath the depths of nastiness it does indeed taste a little like soy sauce. No-one likes living next to the Bracci sauce factory. No-one.
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